


A Puzzle that Should Be Addressed

by Friend_of_the_Widow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attraction, Eventual Smut, F/M, Post-The Final Problem, Slow Burn, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-08-08 08:36:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 89,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16426046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friend_of_the_Widow/pseuds/Friend_of_the_Widow
Summary: Mycroft asks Sherlock and John to find and rescue Lady Smallwood’s secretary, who has been kidnaped. They easily do so, but soon discover the reason why Mycroft went to them, not to the police with the case. The woman is shot under their protection in broad daylight. Now, they have to save her life, while trying to discover who she really is.





	1. In Darkness

When John Watson and Mrs Hudson open the door to 221b, Sherlock Holmes was laying on the floor, both his legs folded back, his feet on the side of his hips. His back was leaning against one of the sofa cushions and his arms lay open to the side of his chest. His eyes were closed and there was barely any breathing moments coming from his chest. John and Mrs Hudson stop on their tracks and look at each other. With Sherlock’s worst bout with drug addiction not so far in past, all of his friends constantly feared a relapse. Feeling tightness taking over his stomach, John called his friend’s name to no response. Looking sternly, John passes his daughter to Mrs Hudson’s arms and rushes to his Sherlock’s side. Kneeling next to him, John reaches for his arm to check his pulse. The moment the doctor takes his wrist in his hands, Sherlock opens his eyes with a jolt:

“What are you doing?” He asks without moving.

“I was checking your pulse, Sherlock,” John answers in a mix of relief and irritation. “What the hell are _you_ doing?”

“Sleeping,” he retorts, still not moving. “Isn’t it obvious? What else could I be doing?”

John stares at him incredulous, than looks at Mrs Hudson in disbelief. “Who in his right mind sleeps in that position?”

“Me. Obviously.” Sherlock raises his torso to situ p. “It’s a yoga position called _The reclining Hero_ …”

“Of course!” John interrupts sardonically, confusing Sherlock a little.

“I understand your reservation, John. I didn’t think it would work either, but once I tried, I feel asleep very quickly.”

“But Sherlock, why were you _sleeping_ in that position?” John asks, taking Rosie from Mrs Hudson and putting her on the ground.

“Aha. Well, that is actually your fault.” John’s eyebrows curved involuntarily into a frown. “Since you not only forbid me to take any sleeping medication, but also confiscated everything stronger than aspirin, I had search for a creative solution to my insomnia.”

“And you found this yoga position?” Mrs Hudson askes, walking towards the kitchen; a smirk starting to show on the corner of her lips.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers patiently, triggering the other two to erupt in laughter. “What?” Sherlock asks wounded.

“Sherlock, you’re not supposed to sleep in this position. You just practise it and it will help you fall asleep more easily. You don’t sleep like that.” John answers and bursts into another round of loud laughter.

Sherlock would have burst into his own tirade of complaints had not his phone started ringing. Ignoring it, he tries to launch his rant, but John interrupts:

“Aren’t you going to get it?” He walks to the mantelpiece to pick up the ringing phone, still stifling a chortle.

“Let it ring. It’s just Mycroft again.”

“He’s been calling a lot?” John asks, dropping the phone back on the mantelpiece.

“Since last night, as a matter of fact,” Sherlock answers, crawling towards Rosie to play with the girl.

“He could have a case, you know,” retorts John, still staring at the phone.

“Oh, it is a case; but a boring one,” Sherlock declares, sitting up and rolling a ball back to Rosie, who giggles with delight. “A kidnapped secretary. Nothing he should be bothering _me_ with. Even the Scotland Yard should be capable of solving a missing person’s case.”

“Pitty! I could have used the money,” John answers walking towards the two. They haven’t taken any case in some weeks now, and he is actually starting to miss the thrill. “Right. I’ll be off to the surgery now,” he says, lowering himself to kiss his daughter’s head. “I’ll pick her up at about six, ok? Mrs Hudson?”

Before the landlady could even answer, he is back on his feet and heading towards the door. When she finally comes out of the kitchen with the tea tray, he has already closed the door downstairs.

“Sherlock,” she says thoughtfully. “If this case Mycroft has is so easy, why is he calling _you_ , not the Scotland Year?” She put down the tray on the computer table and stares at the detective with bright eyes.

“Don’t know, Mrs Hudson,” he replies, standing up with a quick jump; an impish smile broadening on his face. “And I don’t intent to find out.”

 

 

Around three thirty in the afternoon, Sherlock sits bored in his chair, tightening and rosining the bow of his violin. He was playing it to make Rosie sleep, as he always does, but this time, the little pixie had gotten hold of the bow and almost damaged it. Mycroft called and sent different sorts of messages throughout the day, but had gone quiet for the last hour. Sherlock was just considering that his brother might have given up and called the police, when he heard the familiar sound of limousine engine stop on the curb outside. The door open but instead of the usual sound of Mycroft’s leather soled Oxfords; he heard John’s sneakers crossing the pavement. In a couple of seconds, the doctor was standing the living room, looking furious:

“Get up, Sherlock. Let’s go!”

Sherlock looks up at his friend and smiles a sardonic smile: “Now he got _you_ to do his bidding.”

“Come on, Sherlock. I don’t have all day. Get up, put on your shoes and let’s go.”

“First, tell me how did he get you to do this? Did he offer money?” He smirked roguishly, but there is a trace of irritation detectable on his voice.

“How did he get me to...” John repeats, losing his temper. “How he got me to come here? Well, the way you Holmes brothers _ALWAYS_ get what you want. He _BULLIED_ me, Sherlock. That is how your family DOES things!”

“How?” Sherlock’s reply sounds too calm in contrast with John’s volume, but it helps the doctor get a hold of himself.

“He sent some sort of police car and simply closed off the whole surgery,” he starts calmly but his wrath starts building up again. “Sent everybody home and said if I didn’t come to get you, he was going to declare it a condemned building. I had patients, Sherlock. PATIENTS!” The detective jumps to his feet and starts getting ready. “Doesn’t he have _any_ sort of respect for the general public? You know, tax payers?”

Putting on his coat with a smug smile, Sherlock retorts: “You know he doesn’t,” and walks out of the apartment. John takes a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists, and follows him. On the way down, he shouts to the Landlady:

“Mrs Hudson, I’ll probably be a bit late.”

 

 

When they get to Mycroft’s office in Whitehall, they are surprised to see that Lady Smallwood sitting across the table, waiting for them. Mrs Hudson’s question pops in Sherlock’s mind and he wonders if he had been wrong all along and if this case will turn out to be more interesting than he thought.

“I’m glad to finally get a hold of you, brother dear. You seem to be very… _busy_ lately,” says Mycroft in his customary sarcastic manner. “I’m glad the good doctor could still lend a hand,” he completes, to John utter desperation.

“Well, brother mine, if you would just give me a better description of your cases over the phone, perhaps you wouldn’t need to waste tax payers’ money just to get me here.” Sherlock’s quip was aimed at his brother, but it is Lady Smallwood who seemed to be more affected, sending a furious look at Mycroft.

“Not _every_ subject can be dealt over the phone,” he answers, trying to avoid Smallwood’s scorching eyes. “And if you would just _answer_ yours, I would _not_ have to bother Dr Watson to get your attention.”

“Bother me?” John retorts rampant. “You sent the whole surgery _home_!” Lady Smallwood frowns, letting out a small gasp of indignation, which helps calming the doctor down. “Okay, now that you got us here, why don’t you tell us more about this bloody secretary,” John asks taking a seat on the modest couch against the wall. Sherlock follows him, taking the seat closer to the table.

“So, why is this secretary too important for Scotland Yard to deal with?” Sherlock seems to hit another nerve with his question, as Lady Smallwood shoots Mycroft a knowing look. The older brother remains collected.

“Miss Clara Thaw,” Mycroft pauses, taking a photograph from a file on the table and offering it to Sherlock. “She joined us five years ago as analyst, but has been transferred to Lady Smallwood’s assistance since... Well, you know when,” he completes, glancing awkwardly at John.

Sherlock examines the picture and passes it to John, indicating to Mycroft that he wants the whole file. Mycroft ignores him. “And under what circumstances did Ms Thaw disappear?” Sherlock asks, pointing to the folder in Mycroft’s hands, who still denies it.

“We believed she was taken from her home, near Bloomsbury,” Lady Smallwood answers impatiently, taking the file from Mycroft and giving to Sherlock. “What, Mycroft? You already disturbed Dr Watson’s practised for the day and spent what I can only imagine was a reasonable amount of taxpayers pounds getting them here. I believe they are allowed to access all the information they can, if they is supposed to find Clara.” Her actions leave the older brother stunned, but she persists. “She left work late at night two days ago and when she didn’t come in yesterday morning, I knew something was wrong.”

“And you are sure she was kidnapped and not just ran away somewhere?” Sherlock asks with affected condescension. “We all remember your _last_ secretary, Lady Smallwood.” John shudders on his seat.

“ _Clara_ would never do such a thing.” Lady Smallwood reacts outraged. “She is the most loyal employee I’ve ever had,” she completes, flashing a glance at Mycroft. “Besides, the video does show how she was taken…”

Mycroft jumps to his feet as if the movement could undo what Lady Smallwood just said. Too late.

“You have video of her being kidnaped?” John questions, staring dumbfounded at Mycroft.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies. “They have CCTV cameras everywhere in this town.” He stands up and paces around the rather diminutive office. “If you have images; if you can probably even see who took Ms Thaw and what kind of vehicle they were driving; why didn’t you contact the police? I can’t find anything special about this case that you cause you to need _my_ help.”

Lady Smallwood and Mycroft once again exchange meaningful looks. “Working as she did for a senior member of the Ministry of Defence,” Mycroft answers, pacing the room like his brother. “Ms Thaw has access to too much delicate information to let her fate be in the hands of the overworked London police.”

There was a silence in the room while the brothers stared at each other, clearly measuring their respective next steps. It was broken by a very upset (and very loud) John.

“When my wife’s team went under attack in Georgia, you did nothing to recover them. You let them die, even though they held a lot of your sensitive information. They were expendable; sold by one of your own people. Why the change? Surely, you can get another secretary…”

Lady Smallwood looked towards Mycroft, a pinch of desperation in her eyes. Mycroft’s stoic air melted into something resembling caring; something Sherlock had only seen during his own darkest moments.

“We are learning from our mistakes, Dr Watson,” the lady says in a voice that mixed kindness and tiredness. “What happened to your wife’s team was a _horrible_ fault on our part, and we are trying to develop better ways to work so that such errors _never_ happen again.” She looks at him with kind eyes: “Finding Ms Thaw will certainly not correct what was done to your wife, but it _will_ show how we are trying to learn from past mistakes.”

Another heavy silence spread over the room. Something in this case felt interesting to Sherlock, although he could not yet reckon what it was. He considered all the meaningful looks his brother and Lady Smallwood had just exchange. There is definitely more to this secretary than the two want him to know. Temped by what they were _not_ telling him, he quickly decided:

“Right, I’ll take the case! Show me the videos, please.”

Even John seemed to breathe relieved. Lady Smallwood stands up in a very matter-of-fact manner – in stark contrast to the almost motherly way she had just spoken, and marches towards the door: “Come with me. I’ll ask Amy to show you what we got.”

“Elisabeth!” Mycroft manages to protest in shock before the three leave his office, but, being solemnly ignored by all, he follows sulking.

 

_______________

In a dark, windowless room, a woman is crying, lying on the floor. Her arms and legs are tied with cable ties; her hair is soiled with clotted blood:

“Please, let me go. I’m not the one you’re looking for. Please!” Her voice is stifled by her sobs. The door finally opens to a young man carrying a handgun. Her crying increases as he walks in her direction and kneels. “You don’t understand. You got the wrong person. Please, let me go!” She begs as big tears roll down her face. The young man, still in his teens, wipes her face, taking pity.

“Don’t worry, ma’am. We won’t do you any harm.”

“But why me? I’m not who you’re looking for.” He bushes her blond hair back and her crying slows a bit. “Please, help me. I’m so afraid.” She tries to sit up, but fails; big tears rolling down again. The boy helps her up, wiping the tears and fixing her hair:

“Don’t be afraid. We never hurt any of the merchandise.” She restarts to sob again, this time uncontrolledly; her whole body shaking. “Look,” says the boy standing up. “I will get you some water so you calm down. The calmer you get, the easier it will be.”

As he turns towards the door, both notice the figure of a woman standing on the doorstep. She is old enough to be the boy’s mother, but her eyes do not show any of the compassion that the boy’s do.

“Mark, what did I say about talking to that one?” The boy immediately shrinks. “The boss told us she is dangerous.” Her voice sounds calm, almost kind, but her eyes are almost as if they are full of hatred.

“Sorry, ma’am, but she is scared and I was trying to help her.” He starts towards the door. “Besides, she doesn’t seem dangerous to me.”

The woman walks slowly towards him. “Look here, youngling. The boss said she is an actress. She pretends to be what she is not and she will get you if you let her fool you.” The boy looks at the hostage, not completely accepting that to be truth.

“But she is crying, Mrs Shane. She is really afraid. I don’t think you can pretend that.” He tries to explain himself.

“The boss said she is as sly as a fox. Those tears aren’t real. She is not scared. The boss said one day she is one thing, the next she is something else. I believe him and so should you.” At the last word, she boxes the side of his head, making him flinch even more. “Now go away and don’t let me catch you in here without me sending you in!”

The boy lurches away from the room, not daring to steal a look back, while the older woman watches him. Once he is out of earshot, she turns to stare at the prisoner, towering in front of her, arms crossed.

“You may fool a sprat like that, but you can’t fool an old-timer like me, Miss.” The hostage slowly raises her head to stare directly at the woman’s face. Her eyes are now dry and, instead of full of fear as they were while she was talking to the boy, they are cold and full of hatred, matching her opponent’s.

“Aren’t you afraid I will recognise you, Mrs. Shane?”

The older woman meets the younger’s eyes with scorn and walks towards the door: “Miss, just because _we_ are not allowed to hurt you,” she answers, stopping at the door. “It doesn’t mean that you _will_ see England again!” She says, slamming the door behind her and locking the other in darkness.


	2. Everything Goes Black

With one single knock, Lady Smallwood opens the door into a dark and narrow room. If Mycroft’s office was small and sparse, this was even worse: no daylight, no sofa; only a table covered with monitors, and one single chair, where a woman sat, working on a video switcher.

“Amy, this is Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. Show them the videos of ahh.. Clara.” The lady orders, ushering the two men into the very tiny room. Mycroft stands with her by the door.

“Yes, Lady Smallwood.” The woman blinked profusely at the sudden increase in light and, without even looking at the newcomers, set out to work on the monitors. She was dressed in what looked like stained pyjamas; dishevelled and, for the smell inside the room, had been sitting there for more than a day. “Three cameras caught what happened, from three different angles. One across the street,” she said as she played the video. “But the white van is like, blocking the view. One from the corner,” and another video was played, this time from a bit further. “And one from a bit down the street.” This one had the clearest shot but was filmed from farther away, making it more difficult to distinguish exactly what happened.

Sherlock leans on the table, watching intently: “Can you play them again, please.” The woman does as he asks.

“What was Ms Thaw working on the days before this happened?” John asks Lady Smallwood, taking a notepad out of his jacket pocket.

“Besides the normal comings and goings of the everyday work, we were starting to plan for my birthday party. We started preparing a guest list, but that was all.”

“Was she doing anything _unofficial_?” He continues, scribbling.

“What do you mean, _unofficial_?” Mycroft shoots an irritated look at the doctor.

John grunts and smiles sardonically: “Look, I don’t think anyone would kidnap _anyone_ just to be invited to Lady Smallwood’s birthday party.” He lets the sarcasm of his comment sink in a bit. “So, there was probably another reason. And considering how your last secretary maintained her undertakings a secret from you for _so_ many years, I wonder if _this one_ wasn’t doing the same!”

“Dr Watson!” Mycroft intercedes furiously.

“He is right,” Sherlock retorts from the table. “Can you enhance the third one for me, please?” He asks the woman calmly.

“Already did, but you can’t see the license plates,” she interrupts, playing the enhanced video.

Sherlock held his finger to signalise she should wait and continued towards his brother:

“What John means to ask is how well do you know Ms Thaw; how much can you trust her? What stops her from faking this whole thing and flying away with some stolen information, to sell to the highest bidder? It has happened before.”

The resentment on Lady Smallwood’s eyes was burning, but it is Amy, the video expert, who jumps in defence of her colleague:

“Aah… Clara would _never_ do such a thing. She is the most honest, most loyal person I know,” she says, her eyes gleaming with a mix of fury and tears. “Look! Look what a fight she put up,” she says, pointing to the enhanced video playing on a loop in one of the monitors. “Someone _faking it_ would not put up that much of a fight.”

Sherlock examines the video closely. “What you say is questionable, but she did put up more than a fight that night,” he says moving even closer. “She put a mark on the van that took her,” he points to the image. “Look how she breaks the lights.”

All four moved closer to see. Amy quickly had all monitors playing the same scene on a loop: attacked by two hooded men, the woman hit them back with her purse and, at some point, held on to the back of the van to stop them from carrying her. When the two men finally managed to unhinge her from her post, she used her hills to smash the rear indicators and reversing lights, damaging the wing.

“Apparently, Ms Thaw did leave us a way to look for her,” Sherlock continues. “Do we know what of kind of car this is?” He says, looking from Amy to Mycroft, who shrugged.

“Amy?”

The woman jolted as if coming out of a trance and started looking at the papers spread around the table. “That was a Ford Transit, the most popular van in the UK. It is a very common car, especially in white,” she completes, trying to justify herself.

“No problem. Your _honest_ friend has given us something to look for,” Sherlock replies in a mix of mockery and condescension. “Now, how about what John asked before?” He says, turning to his brother and Lady Smallwood. “Was Ms Thaw working on anything on the side?”

“Not to my knowledge, Mr Holmes,” the lady answers coolly.

“Then _we_ will have to find out if she was doing so _without_ your knowledge,” he answers walking out of the room.

Lady Smallwood held Sherlock’s arm, making him stop on his track: “I trust Clara Thaw with my life, Mr Holmes,” she said in a low, husky voice. “And the two of you would too, if you knew her.”

“I would like to see her apartment, if I may,” he answers defiantly, while her eyes squinted in fury.

“Amy, order a search for a white Ford Transit with broken rear light around the greater London, please.” Lady Smallwood commands, letting go of Sherlock’s arm. “Give Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson a copy of everything we have found out so far.” She turns to walk away. “And take them to Clara’s apartment.”

“Elisabeth,” Mycroft exclaims with surprise, setting one hand on the lady’s shoulder. She looks at him, than looks back at his brother.

“There is nothing there he is not allow to know,” she says, in a tone that sounded more like an order than an explanation.

 

 

It was already getting dark when the three of them entered the apartment on a side street, close to the Russel Square Station. The place was clean and tidy. No evident sign of struggle.

“Here we are,” says Amy flicking the lights on and checking her dirty clothes, self-conscious as she caught a glimpse of herself on the mirror. “I guess she didn’t get to come up here before they took her.”

“But somebody did,” says Sherlock, checking the dust on the computer table. “Some items were removed from here.” He walks towards the bedroom, leaving Amy squirming around, trying to hide the obvious sloppiness of her clothes, and John calmly taking notes.

“Could someone have broken in?” John asks in the direction Sherlock walked off.

“No. All windows are closed and the door was not damage,” he replies entering the room. “Did anyone else enter this apartment since Ms Thaw was abducted, Ms…?”

“Aldwin. I did. I came here to check on her once she wouldn’t pick up her phone,” she answers, locking her arms before her body.

Sherlock stares at her: what a strange figure! The dirty, old clothes suggested an isolated, indoor person, but her constantly checking herself suggested she was worried about her looks. Her crossed arms suggested a defensive, closed disposition, but yet, she was the one to give them the most important information so far.

“Did you _move_ anything, Ms Aldwin?” Sherlock asks earnestly, as a teacher who caught a student doing something forbidden.

She stared into his eyes and, with a pinch of mockery, said: “No. I wouldn’t dare to, Mr Holmes.”

A lie and all three of them knew it. Sherlock held her look for a couple of seconds, having trouble to decide if he found this woman funny or annoying. Leaving the decision for another moment, he went on:

“You said she would not pick up her phone. Has it been found yet?”

“No.” She thought for a while and then, walking towards the laptop on the table. “I tried to locate it, but it seems like they dumped it somewhere outside of Ilford,” she explains, showing a website on the computer.

“You should tell the police to concentrate the search for the van in that area, then,” Sherlock says patronizingly.

“Don’t tell me how to do _my_ job,” Amy retorts cheekily.

“Dead end, then,” John says and leaves the room. A silence filled up the space and Sherlock’s mind with uncomfortable questions. He looks at the woman sitting at the table and decides she is their only chance of getting any positive result.

“Ms Aldwin, were you and Ms Thaw close friends?”

She straightens up. “What do you mean _were_?”

“Just a way of saying.” He walks around the table to look at her face. “Were you friends?”

“Yes. We worked together a couple of times,” her voice drops to almost a whisper and Sherlock seizes the moment of weakness:

“If Ms Thaw ever meant _anything_ to you, you have to tell me _everything_ you know. Is there anything _else_ you can tell us to help us find you friend?”

Her head drops as she considered what to do next. Taking her phone from her pocket, she stands up: “There is another thing. Don’t tell anyone I showed you this,” she says opening an app. “All of us _MoDers_ have to carry a GPS tracking device somewhere on our bodies at all times.”

“All of you?” Sherlock asks wondering if his brother has one as well.

“Yes!”

“Since when?” John asks, having trouble to understand what _MoDers_ meant.

“2015,” she answers after considering a bit. “Aaah… _Clara_ had a chip installed into an earring, so she would always have it on.”

“Tell me that you can track it,” John asks in a supplicant tone.

“I already did,” she says with triumphant eyes gleaming in John’s direction. “It has been stationary in a house in Norwich since yesterday afternoon,” she completed, a tinge of worry in her tone.

“Then forget Ilford. We have to send to police to Norwich,” John announces emphatically, staring at Sherlock. His friend looks down at the woman, who was gazing at the top of the bookshelf across the room.

“Something tells me Ms Aldwin already did that.” Sherlock follows her gaze to three bottles at the top shelf: one of Jack Daniels whisky, one of Jäggermeister and an empty one of Appleton Estate Rum. “Ms Aldwin,” he says, crunching in front of her so their eyes are at the same level: “I am not the only alternative to finding your friend, but I am _the best_. You can go on playing Mycroft’s and Lady Smallwood’s little game of charade and, _maybe_ , find Ms Thaw’s body or pieces of it in a couple of months’ time. _OR_ you can tell me _everything_ we need to know and give her a chance.” He paused for effect before continuing. “Which one is going to be?”

“Okay!” Amy whispers standing up. “There might be one more thing, but I’m not sure.” She walked to the bedroom and came back with a file in her hands. “Before she went to work with Lady Smallwood, Aah… _Clara_ was working on a case of people smugglers. She told me she had an agent in Norfolk, but I don’t know if he was in Norwich.”

“What do you mean _an agent_?” John asks, unfamiliar with the lingo.

“She means an insider, a informant inside an operation. Right?” Sherlock completes.

“Yes,” Amy confirms afflicted. “She never talked much about that case to me. We hardly ever met then, so I don’t know anything about it. Or even if there is any connection,” she explains, passing the file into Sherlock’s hands. “ _You_ will have to establish one. But I’ve heard you’re good at it.”

Sherlock takes the folder in both his hands. “I’m the best.” He turns around and heads for the door, pulling his phone from his pocket in one single movement. John jolts into action and follows him:

“Lestrade,” Sherlock shouts into his phone. “Who do you know in the Norfolk police force?” And both of them leave.

 

________________

The door flings open and Mrs. Shane’s silhouette pierces the darkness of the room:

“Wake up, Miss! It’s time to go!”

The hostage barely has time to open her eyes before noticing the two men lifting her up and caring her by her arms and legs out of the room; one, the young boy from before, the other a large, strong bloke, who smelled like fish. Unable to move her limbs, she decides to analyse her situation before jumping into action. They carry her to a car, parked inside a garage, adjacent to the house she was in. By her calculations, it should be the middle of the night.

The men put her in the boot of the car, get in the car and drive for about ten minutes before stopping and turning the car off. She can hear the sounds of waves crashing and, after a few minutes, even smell the sea once the car fumes dispel. After another ten minutes, the two men get out of the car, lift her out of the boot and carry her towards a rowing boat resting in the shingles. Once she is loaded in, they push the boat into the breaking waves and start rowing. The sea is calm, but the night is chilling. The woman’s blazer is absolutely no match for the cold, but the fact that she is being taken away to water is what really worried her. She needs to find a way to get out before anything bad happens.

After a couple of minutes rowing, when land cannot be seen anymore, the young one asks:

“Shouldn’t we better put the life-vest on her?” The other doesn’t respond. “The boss said she is not to be hurt!”

The big one finally acknowledges the question and, without even changing the rhythm of his rowing, answers: “Yeah. But don’t take too long. I don’t want to do this alone.”

The young boy put his rows down, picks up a vest and crawls in the direction of the woman. He kneels in front of her, taking a pocketknife from his jeans and taking her tied up wrists to cut the cable binder. He cuts the plastic and turns to grab the vest, but as he turns back to face the woman, she punches him, breaking his nose and sending him backwards to land with a scream.

“Sorry, boy. Nothing personal,” she says getting up and trying to reach for the dropped pocketknife. At the same time, the other man let the rows fall and stands up, pointing a hand gun at the woman’s head.

“Drop that knife right now, you bitch, or I will blow an extra whole on your head!”

The woman freezes, glancing sideways to the big man and staring straight into the barrel of a 9 mm handgun. Convinced he isn’t just bluffing; she drops the knife and tries to turn around to face him, but her ankles being still bound, she loses her balance.

“Sit down now, woman, or you will get us all wet,” the man shouts, using his body to stabilise the rocking boat, while still pointing the gun at her. “Get up, Mark, and tie her up again.” He waits while the boy tries to get up, holding his bleeding nose. “You see why Mrs Shane said we shouldn’t trust this bitch? Now, do you have cable ties?”

“Yes.” The boy answers, the blood in his nose finally clotting. “Do I put the life vest on her?”

The question deeply irritates the other. “She just broke your nose! What do want to protect her for?”

“The boss _said_ she was not to be hurt!” The boy protests, trying to keep a safe distance from the woman.

“I’m actually _this close_ to shooting her. If the money wasn’t so good, I would have done it already.” The man sits down, forgetting, for a few moments to aim at the woman. “For me, you could throw her off the boat!”

The boy looks questioningly at him, than stares at the woman, who stares back at him.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she says gazing into his eyes. The boy ignores her and moves around, picking up the vest from the boat’s floor mechanically. “I had to try something.”

With one pleading look at the other man, who snorts and raises the gun once more, he puts the vest on her and straps it coarsely.

“Put your hands together!” He commands her, taking a cable tie from his jacket pocket. She opens her mouth to say something while he fastens her wrists, but gives up and sits quietly, appreciating the fact that she was alive. She needs to figure out a way to scape or she will be dead soon.

After the boy resumed his rowing position, they set the little boat in movement and row for another 15 minutes until they reach a fishing vessel. The men on it show torches upon them and silently throw out a rope ladder on the side of the boat. The other two row closer and, standing up, the bigger one grabs the ladder.

“Come on, bitch. Get up. Mark, free her legs, will ya.” The boy does as told and helps the woman walk towards the stern.

“I’ll need to free her hands if she is supposed to climb.” The boy tells in a mix of forlornness and fear.

The bigger guy draws his gun once again and points at her head. “Ok, I got you.”

Once again, the boy takes his pocketknife and cuts the binders from her wrists, but this time the woman just massages the wounded skin at the spot where the plastic cut into her skin. The boy pushes her towards the ladder.

“Climb.” The woman looks around her and obeys. As she reaches the third shaky step, the bigger man pulls strongly on her life vest, making her loose her grip and fall on the icy water. “Josh, what are you doing? You’ll hurt her!” The younger one protests.

“She is just wet, not hurt,” says the other laughing heartedly, while the boy leans over to fish the woman out of the water. He helps her up the steps this time and follows her to the deck, where six men, two who looked like fishermen and six dressed on dirty blue overalls, are waiting for them. The boy greets the fishermen, who respond with a heavy German accent and point to the other four.

“Only _fourr_ _zis_ time.”

The boy glances over them quickly, but turns to the woman, pulling cable ties from his jacket pockets.

“Sit down!” As she complies, he ties her wrists and ankles firmly once again, under the curious eyes of all other men. Once he is done, he moves towards the cabin to explain to the German fishermen about the ‘special cargo.’ He warns them that she is dangerous and that it is better to keep her handcuffed for the whole trip.

“Huat about ze over-all?” The older fisherman asks.

“Oh, don’t mind that. She will try to scape and probably hurt you,” the boy answers, shaking his head.

“Is zat huat happened to your nose?” The other German asks.

“Yeah,” the boy says, full of embarrassment, to the laughter of the other two.

“Was für ein Dösbaddel, heh?” One fisherman whispers to the other as they start going through the business information with the boy. After a few minutes, the boy comes out and commands the other six men to get down to the smaller boat. As soon as they have left, one of the fishermen starts the engine, while the other puts a dirty blanket around the woman’s shoulder.

“For ze cold!”

Soon, she is alone and freezing on the open deck. The wind created by the movement of the boat makes her wet clothes feel like ice. If she was worried before about being killed when she arrived at whatever destination they were taking her, now she is worried about freezing to death before they even reached land. She has to do something, quick. Jumping towards the entrance of the cabin, she shouts:

“Hey! I need help!” After a few seconds, one of the fishermen, the younger, appears at the door.

“Ja?”

She jumps a few feet closer before trying to explain herself: “Sir, you see, I fell into the water and am now drenched. The wind out here is freezing. Your friend gave me a blanket, but I’m afraid it’s not enough.”

“Warte hier,” the man answers, signalling for her to stay where she is. After a few seconds, both of them appear, one of them carrying a small pair of scissors, the other, a bundle of clothes. As the one kneels to cut the cable ties, she offers first her ankles. The moment he cuts the plastic band on her wrists, she twists his hand carrying the scissors with one hand, and with the other, she punches the man in the nose, breaking it and sending him howling to the ground. As she quickly gets up, the other man is already upon her. She manages to punch him hard a couple of times, making him lose his balance, but before she can finally knock him out, the other man hits her over the head with a row. Everything goes black.


	3. I Told You

She wakes up to the sound of two men talking. At first, she doesn’t recognise the language, but bit by bit she understood their German.

“She is pretty. Too bad that she does not belong to the _squad_ ,” one of them says, licking his lips. Her stomach turns in repulsion and she closes her eyes not to see them.

“As I said, she continues towards Serbia,” the other one, sounding much younger, explains in a good humoured tone. “As soon as she gets fit again, the boss gets her from here.”

“Oh, the boss himself gets her? She has to be important then,” the other one comments on a wondering tone. “Or a very good fuck,” he completes laughing and smacking his lips, making her feel nauseated again.

“I do not know that. All I know is that the boss wants her not to be harmed,” the young one explains. “But she made a bit of a row during the crossing and they had to hit her to keep her quiet. They must have used a little too much power.”

“That explains the concussion,” the older man completed. “But now she is getting better. A quiet night for her head and the medicine for the cold and she will be fit again in two days.”

“Thank you, doctor. How can I show my gratitude?” The younger one asks with malice in his voice.

“You _know_ how,” the doctor answers in an even more despicable manner. “Too bad that she does not belong to the squad,” he repeats following the other towards the door. “But I think Mallene still knows her craft, right?

Once the door closes on the two, she controls the shudder of disgusts taking over her body and starts assessing her situation. Her arms and legs are free, but she is feeling weak, probably from the concussion the doctor talked about. Not to mention the two days without any food. She tries to sit up on the bed, but her body aches too much, and dozens of flashing points appear before her eyes. She decides to remain laying, breathing until her vision is normal again.

The room is large but sparsely decorated. There is a double bed where she is laying a night stand, a wardrobe and a small sofa by the door. The curtains on the window are thick and make the room dark. The bulb on the night stand burns in a reddish light. There is another door, which probably leads to an en suit bathroom. She is lying under a heavy blanket but still feels cold. As a matter of fact, she feels as if her whole body is swaying with the motion of waves. She closes her eyes and her lids feel like they are burning. She doesn’t know if she has a fever or is just too exhausted. Trying to remember who she knows from Serbia, she falls asleep.

 

_______________

“So…”

Greg Lestrade stands in front of the table, rocking on his feet while waiting for the detective. John could leave neither his daughter nor his surgery alone for another day, so Sherlock had to bring the next best thing to Norwich. Molly Hooper having declined his invitation, he had to bring Lestrade. To be fair, the Detective Inspector had been very accommodating, dealing with the local police so Sherlock wouldn’t have to – but that was a problem that a call to Mycroft would also had solved. And Sherlock wouldn’t have to make small talk with the beaming man in front of him.

“The guys from the local force are going in,” Lestrade reports. “Would you like to go with?”

Sherlock pushes down the urge to rebuke the policeman one more time. Closing the two files Ms Aldwin had given him, he puts out his cigarette on an empty plastic tea cup and stands up: “Yes. That _is_ the reason why we came here. Isn’t it?” Even scolding Lestrade was becoming boring with repetition.

Holding the files close to his chest, he walks with the DI to the car. He had been studying the meticulously researched and impeccably organized documents for the last 24 hours and the one thing he was sure about was: who ever Clara Thaw was, she was _not_ a mere secretary. Mycroft was hiding something from him and find out what was the main force driving the Sherlock forward in this case. Provoking his brother still felt as sweet as when they were teenagers, even after all that happened with his sister. Especially _because_ of all that happened to his sister.

Once Lestrade stopped the car in front of the house, they could see a tumult of people coming in and out of it: agents escorting out men in handcuffs; forensics teams preparing their work. People were shouting, shining flashlight in different corners, but no sign of Clara Thaw. While Sherlock tried not to kill anyone for stepping on the parkway mud and destroying evidence, Lestrade came back after talking to the lead investigator:

“Well, the girl is not here,” he says stating what Sherlock already noticed. “None of them even speak English, except for one guy. Seems like the smugglers got word of the police coming and just left all their clients behind.”

“And took Ms Thaw with them,” Sherlock points out, frustrated.

“Apparently no. The Kurd who speaks English said he saw they take her away in the middle of the night.”

“They could be anywhere by now,” Sherlock mutters to himself. He stares at the confusion as if he was not affected by it. All of a sudden, he shouts: “Where did the Kurd come from?”

“Turkey, I guess,” Lestrade shouts back his answer, not quite understanding the question.

“No, you moron. Which country did he come to England from? France, Spain, Germany?”

“Ah! Germany,” he shouts checking his notes. “A town called Bremerhaven.”

“Did he have a set of women’s earrings with him?” Sherlock asks coming towards Lestrade.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Why?” He asks, scratching his head.

“I need to talk to him.”

 

________________

She wakes up once again with the noise of the door closing. The smell of soup makes her stomach growl. She doesn’t know how long she slept, but she had a vague memory of somebody feeding her soup. She raises her head to look at the door and sees a very young woman approaching her with a tray.

“You are up,” the woman says with a kind smile and a South-East Asian accent. “It’s time to take you medicine.”

“You speak English. Where are we?” She asks, trying to sit up in an agitated way.

“We shouldn’t talk,” the woman stops her and pushes her kindly back into her pillow. “The boss said not to talk,” she whispers. “Now you eat soup and take your medicine to get stronger,” she completes in a more audible tone.

Putting down the tray on the nightstand, the young woman takes the soup bowl and starts feeding the other. In an almost soundless whisper, she starts:

“Don’t talk to me, just listen. You are in Bremerhaven, but one of the girls heard them saying you will be brought to Serbia and killed there, once you’re fit to travel.” She speaks in a different accent, American, while she spoons the soup into the other’s mouth. “I don’t know what they have against you, but I don’t think you should take your medicine.”

“I could try to run!” The other suggests, barely able to move her legs.

“Shhhh!” The young one looks at the door. “No one escapes this place. They _always_ have at least two men guarding the door.” She offers the last spoon of soup. “Besides, the police work with them, so no one will help you outside.” She puts the soup dish back on the ray and takes the medicine in both her hands. “So? What do you say?”

The woman stares at the medicine, than at the other woman. Her head is hurting and she can hardly think. She needs time. The other seems to understand that and, standing up, puts the medicine on the nightstand, takes the tray and walks towards the door.

“I’ll be back soon for your shower. Think about what I said.”

“Wait! What is your name?

“Ssshhhhh!” The other opens the door and peeks outside. “People here called me Mallene,” she answers on the South-East Asian accent, makes a little courtesy and leaves, closing the door behind her.

The woman stares at the ceiling, considering the information she has gathered so far: She is in some sort of brothel in Bremerhaven, recovering from a blow to the head she suffered while being transported by boat from somewhere in Norfolk. She remembers her informant inside a smuggling ring on that part of the country – Gydeon Trenton, and wonders if he had anything to do with all this. She already knew they intended to kill her, but she would like to know at least who and why. She looks at the medicine. Paracetamol. No need for a doctor for that. She reaches for it and takes two without any water. Whatever is coming her way, she needs her strength back.

 

______________

It was late morning when the doors of the MoD jet Mycroft sent finally opened on the tarmac of the Norwich International Airport. Popping his head inside, Sherlock scolds:

“What took you so long?”

“You know, it’s hard to find baby-sitters that are willing to take care of my daughter for an undisclosed amount of days,” John grumpily shouts from one of the seats, while his friend establishes himself on the opposite one.

“Mrs Hudson said no?”

“She is changing her traditional _‘I’m not your housekeeper’_ for a new _‘I’m not your nanny, dear.’_ ”

“Too bad,” Sherlock answers chuckling. “Okay, captain. We are ready,” He shouts towards the cabin.

“What about Greg?” John questions.

“Who?”

“Lestrade,” he doctor answers shaking his head.

“Oh, on the bus back to London, I guess,” the detective reacts with a mischievous smile.

“You travel by plane and sent him back by bus?” John probes annoyed.

“I don’t have any need for him anymore. I have you,” the other states, closing his seatbelt.

“This is not funny, Sherlock.” John tries to hide a smile. “So, why are we going to Bremerhaven?

“Because that is where the people coming from the Balkan-route gather.”

“The refugees are still doing that?” John wonders, as there had been less and less news on the crisis assailing Europe.

“Well, these are less refugee, more affluent migrants. Who has the money, pays to be transported to England in a more organized, less dramatic trip.”

“And whoever was _bringing_ people _in_ to the country decided they could just as well _take_ Clara Thaw _out_.”

“Apparently the ring leader found out about her informant, Mr Trenton, and decided to take vengeance.”

“But why not just kill Mr Trenton?”

“Oh, they did.”

John thinks for a while before asking: “How do you know she is Bremerhaven?”

“I don’t,” Sherlock answers with a derisive smile. “But Dozan, the Kurdish refugee, said that’s where they came from and that is probably where they took her. Why change a process that has been working so far?”

“But how do you know you can trust him? He could be making all this up.”

“Once again, I don’t,” he answers without the smile. “But he had her earring and I have no other reference points.”

“So, Bremerhaven it is?” John asks, hoping his show of trust in his friend’s intuition would help the mood.

“Bremerhaven it is,” Sherlock replies settling in his chair and closing his eyes while the plane accelerated for takeoff.

 

 

“But how will we know where to look?” John interjects a few seconds later, making Sherlock jolt.

“What?”

“I can imagine that Bremerhaven is not a tiny village. So, how do we know where to look for MS Thaw?”

“Oh. Dozan gave me the address for the place they meet,” Sherlock explains and leans back on his seat.

________________

Looking out of the window, she can see the rooftops of the port city. She can see part of the harbor to one side and part of the city center to the other. The main train station should be in that direction, probably a few of blocks away. She notices an extension to right of the building she is in; probably a kitchen or even a restaurant. If she could find a window opening to that side, she could climb over its roof and jump into the building next door. She runs her hand through her wet hair and smells the clean clothes. She felt a lot better now that Mallene finally managed to help her shower. The muscle pain was gone and, except for some dizziness from time to time, she was feeling a lot stronger. She needs to make her move soon before the overseer discovers her recovery and sends her away. She hears some movement at the door and jumps back to the bed. It is indispensable to pretend she was still very weak.

Instead of Mallene, a tall, dark haired man dashed in, followed closely by a fair haired one and the young woman.

“Clara Thaw, my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr John Watson and we are here to rescue you,” he says in a hurried, low voice.

“Mr Holmes,” Clara mutters with a smile of relief.

“Good to know that my reputation precedes me, but we have to leave now,” he says offering a hand to help her get up. She ignores his offer and, jumping up, replies:

“I know your brother and was hoping he would send some help.” She looks at both men with a touch of wonder in her eyes: “How did you get here?”

“The conventional way: John asked for a little _mattress-dancing_ with one of the girls and they let us in,” Sherlock answers, sending a surge of red into his friend’s face and a wave of laughter into Mallene’s.

“Sherlock,” John reproves.

“What? I believe both ladies _know_ we are in a brothel.” Mallene laughs even more.

“And you opened the door for them?” Clara asks the young woman, who nodded in return. “Oh Mallene, they will hurt you for that…” She said looking kindly.

“More importantly,” John interrupts. “How do we get out? We can hardly walk out the front door with her.”

“I know a way,” Clara starts dashing to the door, but stops halfway. “But we have to do something to help Mallene.” She watches Sherlock’s face and waits for an answer.

“Have you developed some sort of Stockholm syndrome?” With a sigh he starts moving towards the door. “She just has to pretend we overpowered her and took the keys.” He is in the hall as the young woman calls:

“Mr Holmes, you better hit me then. There is a better chance they will believe it.” Clara starts to complain, but Mallene stops her. “Nothing that I’m not used to, sweetie. Trust me.” She takes off her shoes and gives them to Clara. “Here. You can’t run away barefoot.” The two women hold hands for a couple of seconds until Sherlock interjects:

“Would you like to stay?” Clara jolts into action, putting on the shoes.

“Who should do it?” She asks, her eyes travelling between the two men.

John stares uncomfortably at his friend. Sherlock returns the same look. Impatiently, Mallene pushes both of them forward: “I’ll do it myself. Go before someone comes looking,” she says straightening up and slapping her hand against the side of her face. All the other three flinch at the sound. “GO!” She shouts.

The sound of another slap makes them jump into movement. “Thank you. I’ll send help,” Clara says, searching for the stairs. She leads both men two floors down, looking for a window facing north. Finding one at end of the corridor, she tries to open it, but it will only tilt. Heads start to pop from different bedrooms and a quiet rumble starts to wash through the hall. Sherlock browses the place and, taking a folding chair, roars:

“We don’t have much time.” He throws the chair into the window with a loud crash, but the glass only cracks. The noise causes cries from inside the rooms, and more people, men and women, come out to check what is happening. Sherlock hammers the half-broken chair into the glass until it splits into thousands of pieces.

“Over the roof. Quick!” Clara shouts and climbs out of the window ahead of Sherlock, who is still analyzing the situation. As the other two joins her, they hear someone calling the overseer. She crawls straight ahead until the end of the roof, to John’s protest:

“Isn’t easier to just jump over that fence?” He asks, pointing to the parking lot on their right.

“That will be the first place they’ll look for us,” Clara replies. “Come on,” she yells, jumping into the courtyard of a neighboring building. John copies her move, followed by Sherlock, who has time to see two henchmen staring at the window.

“What now?” John asks, trying to catch his breath. “We are sitting ducks if we stay here.”

“West is the shortest way out of here,” Sherlock thinks out loud. “So we go east. And we go fast,” he declares, and leaps into a run towards the left side of the garden. The other two follow and, after jumping over a couple of walls, they are out on a side street. Clara peruses the small road and grabs John’s arms:

“Bank!” She shouts. They cross the street and she opens a glass door into a room full of ATM machines, partitioned from the actual branch, which was already closed. They hide between the machines and watch the street intently, while they catch their breaths.

“What do we do now?” Clara asks.

“Go to the police,” John suggests, as if he was proposing the most obvious thing.

“No,” Clara cuts in. “The police are working with them. Mallene told me.” The thought of the young woman makes her drop her head. “We have to help Mallene,” she states, lifting her head to stare at Sherlock.

“Why do you trust that woman so much?”

“Because she helped me. She didn’t _have_ to, but she did,” she says with supplicant eyes. “Besides, I don’t think she is in that place on her own free will.”

“Another reason to call the police,” John interposes, ducking as one of the henchmen passes by the glass door.

“The police won’t help them. She told me that,” Clara answers, hiding behind a machine.

“What do you propose we do, then?” Sherlock asks irritated.

Clara thinks for a couple of seconds and looks at him defiantly: “Call your brother!”

Sherlock freezes, staring at her in disbelief. “No! You are insane.”

“He can save them with a phone call.”

“He won’t do it. And besides… No!” He says, standing up and walking indignantly towards the door.

“Why not?” Clara asks, while Sherlock checks the street. “Because you don’t want to?” Sherlock nods. Now it is Clara who stood up. She walks steaming towards the detective. “Look, Holmes. You came all the way here to save one woman. Now you have the chance to safe two, perhaps even more. All you have to do is swallow your pride and call your brother.” She waits for a reaction but all he does is tower over her, looking down. “Besides, how do you intend to get us out of this country anyway? You _will_ need to call your brother at some point or other.”

Sherlock stares at the woman. She is a few inches shorter than him, and infuriating. He knows she is right, but still – or because of that - he felt like scratching the skin off her face. With an exasperated sigh, he fished for his phone on the pocket of his coat and dialed his brother’s number. She smiled insolently at him.

“Hello, brother mine. I’m here with Ms Thaw, but she has a little problem,” he says, putting the phone on speaker.

“Oh, she explains it best herself.” Now _he_ was the one smiling. She narrows her eyes and takes the phone from his hand.

“Hello, Mr Holmes. Thank you for sending someone to rescue me.”

“Thank your employer, Ms Thaw,” says Mycroft, unfriendly. “What seems to be the problem now?”

“Well, the place where I was held: It was some sort of whorehouse. And there was this girl working there, who helped me a lot. The thing is: I think she is being forced to work there, Sir.”

“So, call the police.” Sherlock’s smile turns smug.

“The thing is, Sir, she told me the police are cooperating with her captors. I believe something else is necessary.”

“And what do you suggest I do, Ms Thaw?” Mycroft’s voice had become bitter, while Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

“Well, sir, if you could contact someone, maybe the SEK…”

“ABSOLUTELLY NO WAY, THAW!” Mycroft barks in a way that even Sherlock’s smile fades. “I don’t want this to become an international...”

“With all due respect, sir,” Clara interrupts, making John’s jaw drop. “But you sent your brother here. This _is_ already an _international_ affair.”

“I sent my brother so that it _wouldn’t_ become an international affair.” A thick silence followed, making Clara drop her head. “You just get out of there and leave everything _as it is_. Understood?” Mycroft commands.

“Yes, sir,” she answers abject.

“The plane is waiting for you in the airport in Bremen. Are you on your way?”

“Not yet, sir. We are still in Bremerhaven. I still have to ditch a couple of henchmen before we can move towards Bremen.”

“Do so,” he orders, his voice a bit calmer now. “How long until you _ditch_ them and get to the airport?”

Clara looks outside, and then looks at her two companions: “Two, three hours. Top.”

“Good. Do so,” he says and hangs up. Sherlock takes the phone and without a trace of smugness, says:

“I told you.”


	4. Try to Relax as Well

Clara pops her head out of the door and looks both ways out of the foyer of the bank. She needed to find a way to blend the three of them into the people walking around so they could find their way to the train station. She notices a second hand store on the south-east corner and decides it was worth a try. Pulling back into the bank, she looks at her two companions, assessing if there is anything she can do that you change the way they look.

“Holmes. Quick: give me your coat. Doctor Watson, give him your jacket.” The two don’t react, so explains irritably: “They are looking for us, but they have a certain picture in their minds. If we change the way we look, it will make it more difficult for them to recognize us.”

Immediately understanding her point, Sherlock passes her his coat. “Give him _your_ jacket,” she says, signalling he should it pass t to John. “And give me your scarf, please.” She closes Sherlock’s coat around her waist with the scarf, so that it looks like a trench coat. Then, examining the other two, she declares: “Well, one can still see it’s us, but at least they will have to look twice. Any of you have any money? Or a credit card?”

Sherlock points at John, who, looking disconsolate, pulls his wallet from his back pocket. “He _never_ carries _any_ money. It’s incredible.” Taking out his credit card, he asks: “I hope you’re not planning to spend much.”

“I won’t. I promise. Come!” She says, putting the card on one of the pockets of the coat, opening the door and leaving. “Follow me.”

Inside the corner shop, she starts trying different pairs of shoes, while commanding both Sherlock and John to try on different hats. She decides on a slide cap for the doctor and a baseball cap for Sherlock. Settling on a pair of orange high heels, a belt and a shawl, she rips the price tags, gives them to John, together with his credit card, and gently orders: “Go pay!”

While the doctor obeys sheepishly, Sherlock follows Clara into the fitting room. “Would you care to tell me why we are wasting our time _shopping_ , instead of making our way to the station?” He asks, while she fidgets behind the curtain.

“Deception, Holmes. I thought _you_ of all people would understand _that_.”

She steps out of the cubicle looking more feminine and definitely different. As she hands him his scarf, Sherlock had to agree that he would have to look twice to recognize her. He still found it angering that she could take such liberties, talking to him in such a familiar way. They had just met! And she seemed to have misunderstood her situation: _He_ was rescuing _her_. Not the other way around.

“I thought we already covered that,” he says grumpily pointing at John’s jacket.

“They barely had a look at the two of you. But the raggedy woman they’ve spent days guarding is easy to spot. I was putting this operation in danger. Probably still am. This way, at least, they won’t spot me with one glance.”

“All we had to do was move fast enough, and they would _not_ have spotted you.”

She ignored him and proceeded towards the checkout with the sweater pants and t-shirt she was wearing before rolled into a ball. “Könnt ihr diese loswerden? Ich brauche sie nicht mehr,” she talked to the cashier, asking her if she could get rid of her unnecessary clothes. John, who had just finished paying for the purchased items, stared at the rolled up clothes with wonder, then moved to _investigate_ Clara’s attire from head to toe, until he met Sherlock’s blazing eyes, behind her head. The doctor winced.

Noticing Sherlock’s indignation, Clara decides to put an end to it: “Oh, come on, Holmes. Deduce me, then.” The detective looks perplexed, while John looks entertained. “Just pretend this is the first time you see me and tell me who I am.”

Exasperated, Sherlock takes a deep breath and stares at her: “The coat is too large and definitely a gentlemen’s garment; not yours, probably some kind of lover’s. The bright shawl is an effort to divert attention from the fact that you’re not wearing anything but underwear underneath the coat; but your high heels concentrate the focus into your bare legs, undoing what the work of the shawl.” He takes two steps back, stares at her with a sigh. “I would say you are trying to seduce somebody; probably the owner of the coat.” John lets out a humorous snort. “Or you’re a prostitute,” Sherlock finished, to his friend’s amusement.

“Was that what you were going for?” John asks, patting Clara on the back.

“I was going for ‘not running away from people smugglers,’” she answers, her eyes raging at Sherlock, turning around and heading for the door. “ _That_ is close enough.”

John laughs even harder and follows her to the door. “Okay. Now what do we do?” John says, putting his cap on.

“We go to the station,” Clara explains, pointing north-east. “About six blocks that way. They are looking for three people, so we should walk separately. You two go in front, I’ll follow behind.”

“Stupid idea,” Sherlock interrupts, sullenly. “They are looking for _you_. I’m not going to let you walk around without some sort of cover,” he explains, putting his cap on. “John goes first; you go after him and I will follow.”

“Okay. We group again inside the station” Clara agrees, stepping closer to the detective and rearranging his locks under the baseball cap. “Do you both have your phones with you?” The both agree. “Can I have one? In case we get separated,” she explains. Sherlock hands her his phone. “Let’s go,” she commands.

 

 

After a few minutes, the three of them were standing in the train station’s entrance hall. Clara read the time board, while the other two scanned the hall.

“There is a train to Bremen in six minutes,” Clara announces.

“Henchmen at two o’clock,” John stops her, turning around. The other two started and followed the couple of men as they scoured the hall of the station.

“We split and meet in the train,” Clara says. “Platform two; six minutes,” she completes and walks towards a perfume store.

“What happens if one of us gets caught?” John asks.

“Don’t,” Sherlock answers, disappearing into the crowd.

 

 

John jumps inside the train just as the doors are closing and it starts moving. Finding a seat by a window, he searches the platform for his companions. Before he hopped inside them train, he had noticed Clara standing next to a column, checking Sherlock’s phone as if she was waiting for someone. With a sigh of relief, he sees Sherlock emerging from one of the escalators some meters away. As the train gains speed, the doctor notices one of the henchmen coming out of the escalator after his friend. He still managed to see Clara walk quickly towards Sherlock and embrace him, as if she had known him for years. The last thing he could see before the train turned a curve was how she put her hands around his neck and kissed him.

The shock of Clara’s attack on him rendered Sherlock’s mind vacant. He had normal use of all his senses; could feel the softness and the warm of her lips on his, the smell of soap and perspiration that emanated from her hair, even the tension of her jaw muscles as she kissed him. What he couldn’t do was make sense of it all; he could not understand the reason behind her actions. He also could not stop her or free himself from her arms.

“Don’t look, but one of the henchmen is just behind you,” she says with a kind smile that in no way matched her words. “Most people feel uncomfortable with public demonstrations of affection and look away. So, when I stop talking, you are going to smile, put both your hands on my ass and say something as if you’re very happy to see me,” she orders, caressing his hair under the cap with her finger while her hands actually hold Sherlock’s head in place. “And don’t forget to smile.”

Sherlock notices the larger henchman pass by them and it seems to jolt his brain back to normal. “Right, but our train has just left,” he says softly with a sly smile, while placing his right hand on her lower back, the left on nape of her neck. “What do you suggest we do until the next one comes?” He kisses her before she can answer. This time he could really feel how tense she was: her shoulders clenching together, her back unnaturally straight, and her jaws even tenser than before. He slowly moves his hand down her back towards her bottom, causing absolutely no reaction. When he stops kissing her, he notices her face was calm, even happy. This woman could really act a part.

“The train going the opposite direction is coming in two minutes,” she explains in a cooing tone, pulling his body closer to hers and talking softly into his ear. “We will get on it and change for the right direction in a couple of stations. Hopefully, they won’t follow us.”

“So, we pretend to be lovers until it’s here?” He nuzzles his nose on her ear as he asks.

She moves one of her hands to his chest and stares into his eyes: “If it’s making you uncomfortable, it’s probably working on him too. Can you see the other one?” She asks, playing on his collar.

“Two platforms down.” He looks into her eyes, his mind drew another blank. “What now?”

She lets out a loud sigh and hugs him tightly, laying her head on his shoulder and moving him around as if they were dancing. Sherlock notes that he now had a better view of the platform. He also notices that they were directly under the field of vision of one of the station’s security cameras. Sherlock’s suspicions towards Clara Thaw grew. She was almost as canny and deceptive as he himself could be. He was, in fact, starting to wonder how anyone managed to kidnap such a shrewd person in the first place. He was sure there was a lot that Mycroft was not telling him.

“Can you see him?”

It took Sherlock’s mind a few hundredths of a second to refocus on the platform and their attempt to escape the henchmen. He looks around, than looks into her eyes, staring at him like a begging dog: “The big guy is still here. The other I can’t see anymore. We still have one minute to go, right?”

She raises her arms with a gaudy yawn and moves away from his, turning around as if to stretch her back. “Yep! The other one is gone.”

Noticing that the henchman is staring at her, Sherlock grabs her wrist and pulls her back into his arms, dipping her body and kissing her flamboyantly. This makes Clara’s body so tense, she even hold her breath. After a few seconds, he stops, but still holds her close in his arms.

“I said display of affection, not call attention to yourself!” She protests; the smile gone for the first time.

“It worked. He is going away.” She lifts her head to see the back of the big henchman’s head going down the escalator. Putting her back on an upright position, Sherlock announces: “The train is there.” She straightens the belt holding the coat in place and takes his hand on hers, interlacing her fingers on his.

“Let’s go,” she says, walking towards the closest open door. Once inside, she pulls him to a seat by a window and sits down facing both him and the escalator outside. She plays with his hair and kisses his neck until the doors are closed and the train starts moving. Once it gathers speed, she lets go of him, drops her head on the back of her seat and lets out a long sigh; the muscles on her neck and jaws finally relaxing.

“Thanks for cooperating,” she says with her eyes shut. Sherlock nods, turns his body away from hers and tries to relax as well.


	5. The Panic That Ensued

After a little more of an hour and a change of trains in the Bremer main station, Sherlock and Clara reunited with John in the boarding area of the city’s diminutive airport. The team Mycroft sent to take them home was, as expected, waiting for them and swept them instantly to the tarmac. Inside the plane, while a woman gave Clara a quick health check-up, Sherlock and John exchange their jackets and have a conversation about the whole incident.

“What happened at the platform?” John asks, still astonished by what he thought he saw from the moving train.

“One of the henchmen was following me, but Clara and I managed to _blend into_ the crowd,” he explains calmly, his eyes avoiding John’s.

“ _By kissing_ each other,” John interposes volcanically.

“Shhh!!!” Sherlock reprimands him. “We did what we had to do to avoid detection,” he explains, checking that Clara was nowhere to be seen. “Besides, _she_ kissed _me_.”

“Yeah, right!” John laughs in a sardonic way. “ _You_ had no say on it.”

“Most people feel uncomfortable with public demonstrations of affection and look away. It’s simple as that,” Sherlock clarifies irritably.

“Thank god _we_ never had to try that while _we_ were trying to dodge a bad guy,” John chuckles, causing his friend to sulk. Noticing the change of humour, John asks, trying to light up the mood: “Well, Mycroft will be happy.”

“I would rather say _Lady Smallwood_ will be happy. Mycroft will be, at the most, relieved. I don’t think he cares that much about her _ladyship’s_ secretary.”

“But you said before that he was hiding something…” John interjects confused.

“I still believe he is. This woman’s behaviour is not consistent with that of a secretary,” he explains intently observing as Clara chats with one of Mycroft’s agents.

“And how is a secretary _supposed_ to behave? How can you even say such a thing…” John retorts indignant.

“That amount of insight and practical knowledge is more consistent with the secret intelligence service, not a desk job,” Sherlock continues, ignoring his friend’s protest. “I don’t know what she is, but I have difficulties believing she is a secretary.”

“But why wouldn’t Mycroft just s _ay_ if she is one of his agents?”

“I don’t know. _That_ is what intrigues me in this story. Perhaps she knows something about him; or even worst in his mind, his superiors. The truth is that Clara Thaw is a puzzle that should be addressed. But that does not mean my brother will be _happy_ we recovered her unharmed.” He stopped talking when he noticed that the woman had reappeared and was walking towards the two.

“Holmes, here it is,” she says, holding out his coat and scarf. She was wearing some sort of standard issue tracking suit. She took a seat in front of the two: “Your coat; safe and sound.”

“You didn’t have to. I have many coats,” Sherlock explains, taking his clothes back.

“Oh, I wanted to. Couldn’t walk around looking like I wanted to _seduce_ somebody, could I?” She teases, to John’s amusement. “Or worst: looking like a prostitute,” she says, staring aloofly out of the airplane’s window.

“But you kept your high heels,” Sherlock provokes back; a speckle of pleasure brightening his eyes.

“They don’t always carry extra boots _my_ size, now, do they?” She answers playfully. “By the way, that officer kindly informed me that Mr Holmes _did_ send in the special tactics commando and rescued not only Mallene, but 32 other women,” she reports with mock seriousness and a smug smile.

“Oh! Seems like my brother is becoming more clement with age,” Sherlock answer playfully.

“Would that be age or something else?” She wonders with a smirk, fastening her seat belt. Whatever Sherlock intended to retort was interrupted by the voice of the pilot, announcing that they were preparing to take off. Silence took over the cabin as the plane gained altitude. Sherlock kept his eyes on Clara, observing her outward calm demeanour while she pretended to sleep.

“Ms Thaw, why is it that my brother sent us to rescue you?” He asks coolly, fingertips pressed against each other as in praying, his chin resting on his fingertips.

“I don’t know. You will have to ask him,” she dismisses the question, pretending to sleep.

“Yes, but my brother is not here. _You_ are,” he declares, slithering his upper body towards her. “How come he put us through all this danger to save a _simple_ secretary?”

She opens her eyes and stares at him for a few seconds before answering. “Maybe you overlook your brother’s sense of loyalty, Holmes.”

“Mycroft is not loyal,” he responds, sitting up straight.

“Isn’t he?” She counters in a mix of sarcasm and irritation.

“Perhaps to power, to hierarchy, even to nobility. But _not_ to a secretary,” he rationalises to her incredulous eyes.

She takes a deep breath, shaking her head slightly in a visible sign of aggravation. “Holmes, your brother might not be the warmest of persons, but one thing nobody can accuse him of is betrayal!”

“ _I_ could name a few instances,” Sherlock responds, indignant.

“I would trust my _life_ to your brother, Holmes. He _is_ indeed a little unorthodox, sometimes even a bit cold. But he is extremely accurate and effective,” she answers in a very energetic voice.

Averting her eyes to hide a mounting feeling of unfairness, Sherlock tries to continue: “But could you try not to deflect. I was talking about _you_.”

“Then why did you ask me about your brother’s intentions?”

John, who was following the repartee like a tennis match, snorts loudly. Sherlock moves in his seat, annoyed.

“Let me reformulate my question, MS Thaw,” Sherlock resumes, trying to remain composed. “Why would people smugglers kidnap a secretary?”

Clara moves her upper body towards him, copying Sherlock’s previous pose: “I have _no_ idea. You will have to ask _them_ ,” she answers in a low, sultry voice.

John lets out a loud chortle, triggering Sherlock to hit him with his elbow. Regaining his composure and settling down on his chair, the detective continues his questioning:

“You see Ms Thaw, I don’t think a secretary acts the way you do,” he goes on.

“You don’t?” She looks surprised. “And how _is_ a secretary supposed to act, Sherlock Holmes?” She asks, full of sarcasm.

“The way you calculated our escape,” he continues, ignoring her. “And disguised ourselves back in Bremerhaven; those aren’t skills one acquires in the Administration and Secretarial Courses of the University of Essex, Ms Thaw.”

“Oh, you read my file. Did you?” Clara answers with a touch of resentment in her voice. “Well, I really expected more from the great Sherlock Holmes than the contents of my _service_ file. I’m sure you could do better,” she says condescendingly.

“Yes, but that is _exactly_ the problem: Mycroft’s files are never so scarce, so incomplete… It’s almost as if it is _fake_ ; as if he is hiding something…” Sherlock says while maintaining eye contact.

“ _You_ are the master of deduction here, Holmes. Deduce me!” Clara challenges him. “For real now,” her voice challenging, but her smile playful.

Sherlock stands up and walks up the aisle, breathing in and out and avoiding eye contact with the secretary. With one long intake of breath, he starts:

“English accent, but with some vestigial traces of German or Dutch, which tells me you spend a long time in England, but only moved in during adolescence. The way you knew how to confuse our assailants in Bremerhaven, added to the simple fact that you _were_ kidnaped in the first place, indicates experience in getting out of difficult situations, which suggests working undercover. Maybe you work for the police, but the fact that you emphatically defended my brother just nows suggests that you have worked with him. But not as his secretary: we know his secretary. If you worked for Mycroft, you must have done it as an intelligence officer. _Never_ as a secretary,” he finished, turning to face her.

“Brilliant!” she says, staring, entranced and slack-jawed at the detective standing in the aisle. Mesmerized, she holds his gaze for a couple of seconds, before John interrupts:

“Couldn’t she be both?” He asks, to Sherlock’s dismay and Clara’s gratitude. “I mean, Vivian Norbury did it for years and nobody even noticed,” the doctor completes dejected. The comment manages to make both Sherlock and Clara uncomfortable, although in her case, the feeling is mixed with irritation. She twisted and turned in her seat, exhaustion finally catching up.

“Please, Doctor,” she finally says in a low voice, trying to keep her rage under control. “Don’t compare me to that woman. I have made many mistakes in my life, but I could _never_ do what she did,” she continues, staring at the doctor while struggling to stop tears from falling down her eyes. “I _have_ , as he said, worked as an intelligence officer, and, in doing so, I might even have lied about my identity a couple of times, but that does not mean I would deceit and even kill people who trusted me.”

Noticing her honesty, John motions to Sherlock to stay quiet and continues: “Okay, Clara, but how do _I_ know I can trust you? I barely know you and, honestly, I don’t know what is true and what is false about you. You have to understand that, with my experience, I have trouble believing people who aren’t honest about themselves…”

“Oh, you would trust _me_ , if you knew,” she says, clearing a tear from her cheek.

“Then tell me, Clara,” John says, moving towards the woman with urgency. “Why did Mycroft send us to rescue you? Who _are_ you? Why should I trust you?”

She leans back on her seat and takes a deep breath. “Lady Smallwood. I’ve known and worked for Lady Smallwood for a very long time.” She paused, breathing in deeply once again. “As a matter of fact, the lady has saved my life, has given it a purpose. I both respect and admire her profoundly. And I believe the sentiment is reciprocal.”

Sherlock looks at John satisfied, but can’t help himself and asks: “Lady Smallwood might sometimes be governed by sentiment; my brother never is. Why would he deploy so many resources to rescue a _well-liked_ secretary?”

Before Clara even lift her eyes to the detective on the aisle, a member of the crew comes to instruct him to sit down and fasten his seatbelt for landing. Clara takes the opportunity to remain silent and, letting exhaustion take over, fall asleep. Once they disembark, Mycroft’s car is already waiting to take the woman to his office in Whitehall. Sherlock and John insist in accompanying her to demand more explanations from Mycroft, Lady Smallwood and Ms Thaw. When Sherlock tries to persist in his questioning, John stops him, noticing how fatigue is overpowering Clara.

“Let her sleep,” he says, making use of his medical authority. “There will be time later.”

 

 

As the car finds its way through London, following the river for the most part, Sherlock is lost in his thoughts. He has been reflecting about all that happened in the last four days: all he already knew and all he didn’t. Ms Thaw had confirmed some of the things he already suspected, but she didn’t clarify all. One thing in special was still bobbling around his head: what she told John, that he would trust her he knew. What did she mean by that? Knew her? Knew of her relationship with Lady Smallwood? He was glad he was going to be able to question his brothers; and he was not going to let him talk his way out of this. When the sedan finally comes to stop in front of the Ministry of Defence, Sherlock is brought back from his musings with a jolt. He nods at John, who seems to have just revived on the other side of the car, and wakes Clara with a gentle touch to her shoulder.

“Ms Thaw, we are there,” he says, opening the door of the car and getting out.

Clara yawns and stretches lazily before moving towards the door, which Sherlock holds open: “Thank you,” she says, standing in front of him. Suddenly, a shot rings out and Ms Thaw throws herself over the detective, forcing him to stay down on the floor: “John,” she shouts. “Stay in the car.” People run away screaming, and Clara stares at Sherlock, shaking: “Are you hurt? Were you hit?”

Sherlock fells the cloth of his shirt soaking up, warming up his stomach, but he does not feel the same stinging pain he felt when Mary shot him. Pulling Clara away from him, he notices that she was the one who was hit in the abdomen, and is losing a lot of blood.

“John, call an ambulance and get out here,” Sherlock orders. “Clara has been shot.”

“No, no, no,” she protests, shaking. “You stay in the car, Doctor Watson. There is an active shooter out here for all we know. I promised I won’t let you get hurt.”

“John, come on. She is losing a lot of blood,” Sherlock shouts, ignoring her. He gently lifts her away from his body and lays her on her back, close to the car. As she starts shivering hard, Sherlock notices her state was worsening: “Clara, stay with me. Everything is will be alright.”

“This is nothing, Holmes,” she says, while her body started twitching. “Just a scratch; didn’t even hit a lung…” Sherlock holds her head with his hands and smiles at her, while John finally manages to crawl out of the car.

The scene rattles him. It reminds him too much of that tragic afternoon in the aquarium that changed his life forever. Not allowing such feelings to size control over him, he shouts: “Okay, did the bullet pass through?” John morphs into his army surgeon mode. Sherlock nods. “That’s not good. Then I’ll need your scarf please.”

“Did you get the ambulance?” Sherlock asks, passing him the scarf and carefully standing up from behind the car.

“On their way,” John answers, closing one of Clara’s wound with the scarf and reaching for the other one with his hand. “Okay, Clara. Everything will be alright. You’re safe and the paramedics will be here in a few minutes. Just relax and breath and the pain will ease.”

While John tries to stop the bleeding, Sherlock carefully browses the surroundings for the shooter, but to no avail: whoever the shooter was, they sneaked out of sight in the panic that ensued.


	6. A Turn for the Worse

St Bartholomew's Hospital is the oldest hospital in Britain still standing on the same site it was originally built on in the early 1200s. Doctor John Watson was privy to the corridors of the teaching institution: he attended the place. Most importantly, this was the spot where he met his best friend, and where they spent a lot of their time, analysing clues or even hiding out. John knew that the hospital’s accident and emergency department only accepted minor injuries cases, but he also knew that, if he asked, his uni friend Mike Stamford would help him. Mike was a great general surgeon, and John was sure he could handle Clara Thaw’s gunshot injuries. But the ambulance crew was not having it. They wanted to take her to St Thomas’ hospital, just across Westminster Bridge, while John insisted on Bart’s, almost three miles away. In the end, Clara’s condition made the decision for them, and the ambulance cruised the mile long distance to Lambeth Palace Road in less than five minutes. John was, in fact, content with the competent care Clara received, but he would have been happier if he had the familiar faces of Bart’s around her. He knew St Thomas was one of the best teaching hospitals in London, but it had the same the same “home-feeling” like Bart’s did. Besides, he had a strange intuition about the situation. Sherlock Holmes would go into a hysterical fit if he would hear of it.

He thought of his friend; how he had gone into one of his obsessive phases with this case. In the many years of their friendship, John still couldn’t understand what triggered this obsessive behaviour. In the beginning he thought there was something to do with his brother being involved, but he had seen Sherlock ignore many of Mycroft’s cases, some even potentially interesting. He satisfied himself with occasionally helping his friend and _always_ keeping an eye on him. He remembered he was supposed to call his Sherlock, to update him on Clara’s status. Not allowed to ride in the ambulance, Sherlock stayed behind to inform Mycroft and deal with the police. With all probability, he was already at Scotland Yard’s, discussing the shooting with Greg Lestrade.

“John?” The friendly voice of Molly Hooper brought him back to reality. “What are you doing here?” She enquires, starting at the sight of his gory clothes: “Oh my god! What happened to you? Where is Sherlock?” She asked with urgency after noticing the bloody scarf in the doctor’s hands.

“Oh, Sherlock is fine,” he assures her, starting himself. “There was a shooting in Whitehall and I brought the victim here. Sherlock is with the police.”

“A shooting in Whitehall? Was it a terror attack?”

“I don’t know. I think our victim was the target, but we’ll only know once Sherlock has talked to the police.”

“And how is the victim?”

“She lost a lot of blood,” he answers, uneasy. “But they are taking very good care of her.” Molly notices his agitation:

“What’s wrong, John?” She asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Ah, I don’t know. I have this weird feeling that something is wrong. I wish they have taken her to Bart’s,” he explains, exhaustion and familiarity with the godmother of his daughter destroying any kind of reserve.

“John, you know St Thomas’ is a great hospital, very well prepared. You have nothing to worry about.” She pets his shoulder, in an effort to reassure him. “Why _do_ you care so much? Do you _know_ the victim?” She asks, getting worked up again.

“Oh, she is a client,” he answers, immediately correcting himself: “She is actually a case. But I still would feel a bit safer if I knew the staff better.”

“I have some friends in the staff here. What do you need to know?” She offers smiling.

“You do? What _are_ you doing here, anyway, Molly?”

“They have a conference here and I’m taking part,” she answers joyfully to John’s sceptical face. “St Bart’s is not the _only_ teaching hospital in London, John. Come on. Let’s see if I can find Martha. She will help you with your victim/case thing.”

 

 

The call caught him examining the CCTV footage with DI Lestrade. Informing Mycroft of what happened and making sure the police didn’t destroy any evidence on scene took a lot longer than he thought it would. Only now, more than three hours after Clara Thaw had been shot on open street, Sherlock had arrived at Scotland Yard to examines footage of the incident. John was supposed to call as soon as he got to the hospital, but for some reason, he also had taken a lot longer than expected. The news were at least good: Ms Thaw underwent surgery and was recovering well. John was going to pick up Rosie and go home to rest. For some reason, he met Molly Hooper at St Thomas’s hospital and she was going to keep an eye on the patient because she was staying there anyway.

Comforted by this update, Sherlock could now concentrate on finding the shooter. He was still in doubt about the target of the assassination attempt and was hoping the footage could be of any help. After more than an hour analysis, the material was deemed inconclusive on that part, but they could at least track the shooter to a flat in Kennington. Lestrade sent a patrol car to check, but when the uniformed police tried to contact to the man, all they found his was his body inside the flat. Sherlock, of course, rushed to the scene, but could not find out more than Anderson’s forensics team already had – and that was maddening. He had been working non-stop for the last six days, and he was exhausted. Even _he_ could understand that his brain was not working at full speed anymore. So, before taking a cab to St Thomas’ hospital, Sherlock called Molly to certify that Ms Thaw was recovering well:

“What is it with you and John? This is one of the best emergency units in London. They dealt with both the Westminster _and_ the London Bridge terror attacks. They can handle _one_ gunshot victim, Sherlock,” Molly scolds over the phone.

“Of course, of course,” Sherlock tries to correct himself, his exhaustion making it difficult to make sense of it all. “It’s just that she is our _only_ witness and I would feel more at ease if she were somewhere where I know people.”

“Gosh! You sound just like John now,” she answers in a kind but annoyed way. “He already talked with _the complete team_ which operated on her. _And_ the whole night staff of nurses. This woman _will_ be okay. She will be out of intensive care in the morning.” Sherlock remains silent, brooding on the information. “If you want, I’ll introduce you to all of them tomorrow,” Molly proposes, rather motherly.

“Would you do that?”

“Yes, I’m here tomorrow for the conference anyway,” she completes patiently.

“That would be great, Molly.”

“Just one thing, Sherlock,” she interrupts with a pinch of alarm in her voice. “Who _is_ this woman? Why was she shot in the first place? John said something about her _being_ a case of yours…”

“Oh, well. She is sort of _the case_. She is the secretary of someone Mycroft works with and she was kidnaped. He asked me to rescue her.”

“Why would Mycroft care so much about a secretary?”

“ _That_ is the reason why she _is_ the case, Ms Hooper. I don’t believe she is _just_ a secretary,” he answers in playful voice, feeling a bit more relaxed now.

“And why was she shot?”

“That I don’t know. I don’t know if the bullet was meant for her or for me, or if we simply walked into another terrorist attack enfolding. And that is the reason why I need her to recover.”

“Don’t worry, Sherlock. She will, “Molly guarantees.

Thanking her for all her help and waving for a cab, Sherlock announces, relaxing into the back seat of the car: “221b, Baker Street, please.”

 

 

The next morning, Sherlock wakes up late and with a terrible headache. Despite his fatigue, he slept badly, mulling over the events of last seven days. He had answered several questions, but every answer seemed to give rise to two different questions. And then there was the shooting. He was not sure Ms Thaw had been the primary target, as she threw herself in front of him when the shot was heard. For now, she was his only possible source of information on the case, but he knew that she would not talk to him, even if she could. Every time he tried to interrogate her, she was very intent on deflecting all his questions. And that distracted him much more than he would like to acknowledge. He thought of how she used his own words against him on the plane, and had to smile. _“If she IS indeed a secretary, she is wasted,”_ he thought, picking up his phone to call John.

Stopping at the living room window, he thought of how John seemed to have connected with Ms Thaw in the plane. For some reason, the simple mention of Vivian Norbody made her reveal things to John in a way he himself hadn’t been able to achieve. Was it because of John’s status as a widower or was it because of the comparison with a renowned traitor? _“More questions.”_ The only way to answer them was to approach Ms Thaw again, so Sherlock decided to send John to the hospital to talk to her. Perhaps his “more human” approach would prove more successful in making her talk.

 

 

John wasn’t exactly happy about leaving his daughter again. She had spent the last two days with his former sister-in-law, and was now being left with Mrs Hudson once again. John was sure one of these days she would not recognise him anymore. Sherlock had, however, made a good point that he, John, was the best fitting person to talk to Clara at this point. They did somehow connect in the plane, while Sherlock questioned her. The gun wounds she sustained painfully reminded him of his wife. With this in mind, he went back to St Thomas’. He met a convalescent Clara, just settling up in a new room, fresh out of intensive care.

After inquiring about her recovery and current state, Joh awkwardly decides to sound how much she was willing to tell him:

“I’ve noticed you seem to have some experience with being shot!” Clara’s answers with a look of disbelieve and pain, as if he had betrayed her just for mentioning it. “I saw the scar on your stomach when I was trying to stop the bleeding.” The look on her face not improving, John proceeded: “They look old, though.”

Clara fought the soreness and the discomfort she is feeling and, sitting up on the bed, finally answered: “It happened on another life,” she explains in a husky, low voice, hoping to close the subject once and for all. “I don’t even think about it anymore.”

Trying to re-establish the link the shared before, John decides to be honest with Clara: “I’m telling you this because your wound and your scar… They reminded me of my wife, Mary,” he explains, letting himself be vulnerable. “She also jumped in front of Sherlock to protect him,” he goes on, while her eyes filled with tears. “She took a bullet that was meant for him. Just like _you_ did,” he explains with tears in his own eyes. “And she was hit in the abdomen, just like you were…” Clara cannot contain her sentiment and reaches for his hand, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

John felt a wave of warmth engulf him. He barely knew this woman, but felt an immense familiarity towards her. She had just risked her life to save his best friend: a man she had just met. He felt like he could trust her, so he decided to be complete honest with her:

“Look, Clara,” he starts, still holding her hand. “The man who shot you yesterday is dead. Till this moment, not even Sherlock knows for sure who the target was. There could be other attempts, both on your life, or on Sherlock’s, or even on my own.” Clara looks away from him, but keeps his hand on her. “Is there anything you can tell us that would help us find out who did this?” He asks with a terrified tone on his voice. “Anything you’ve heard or seen during your abduction”

After a few moments thoughtful silence, Clara looks back at the doctor’s face: “The men who took care of the smuggled people in Norwich talked very little in front of me,” she explains, her voice throaty from the exertion. “And most of the time, they talked about the other inmates. However, I overheard the man in Germany tell the doctor, who came to check on me, that I was supposed to be taken to their boss in Serbia.” She stops to breathe a bit, adding to the drama of the moment. “But I can’t, by the _life_ of me, remember of anyone I’ve _ever_ dealt with that came from there.”

John squeezed her hand, but he wanted to kiss her. “Thanks, Clara. That was really helpful. I will pass this information to the police. Now you just rest and recover. I want to see you out of here in no time,” he says, propping her pillows and adjusting her blankets.

She looks at him with a very pale face, but very kind yes: “Thank you, doctor, for saving me.”

“Oh, that was just what I had to do,” he says feigning modesty. “I’m a doctor.”

“No, I mean back in Germany. You didn’t have to do _that_!”

He looks at her and smiled: “Call me John,” he says and walks towards the door. “Now rest.”

John throats the hall outside Clara’s room still touched by the moment they shared. It was a strange feeling. Something he had only felt towards one person during his whole life. Automatically, he dialled Sherlock’s number to share the information he had just gotten from Clara.

 

 

“Sounds like I’ve missed someone on Moriarty’s network during my trip to the Balkans,” Sherlock announces to his brother as soon as he hung up his phone.

“How so?” His brother asks puzzled.

“That was John, telling how Ms Thaw reported she was supposed to be transported to Serbia, to be delivered to the smuggler’s boss,” he explains.

“Good, good,” Mycroft states with only a nod of acknowledgement. Stricken by a sudden bout of haste, he stands up and starts pushing Sherlock towards the door of the office. “Now you know and can go and do something about it.”

Sherlock stops on his tracks. Either his brother was having a stroke or was trying to hide something. Staring at his brother’s face, he wonders if he should force Mycroft to tell him what was happening or try to figure out by himself. Knowing how difficult his brother could be when he didn’t want to reveal information, he figured he would need to find a different way to uncover the truth. He would tease his brother, nevertheless: “Mycroft, you know I will find out one way or another, right?” He says, adopting an air of mockery, while his brother met him with disbelieving eyes: “Whatever you are not telling me, I _will_ find out.”

“You can try, little brother,” Mycroft sneers, delicately pushing Sherlock out of his office. “You can try.”

As soon as the door shuts close, Mycroft dials a number on his mobile:

“Miss Hooper, are you still taking part on that conference on St Thomas?” He asks calmly, walking towards his desk and opening his laptop. “Good. Then prepare for _Lazarus._ An attack is eminent. Things will take a turn for the worse.”


	7. It’s Done!

Sherlock wondered if Mycroft had left any loose ends on Moriarty’s case. It was not characteristic for his brother to leave matters unresolved, but he _had_ made at least one mistake on that specific  case. A _very important_ mistake. Maybe he had made another one. Sherlock didn’t like ‘maybes,’ but maybe, Ms Thaw could be instrumental in finding out what Mycroft was not telling. Sending a message to Molly, Sherlock decided to walk to St Thomas’ Hospital. The day was sunny, and fresh early spring air always helped him think. After about one hour, was greeted by a beaming Ms Hooper upon arriving at the entrance hall.

“The dead shooter? Anything on his post-mortem?” He asks hurriedly.

“Good morning for you too, Sherlock.” Molly answers aggravated, causing him to regret his manners. “They just sent me the partial report. Apparently, there is something with the bullets.”

“Something what?” Sherlock insists in his hasty tone.

“They seem to be from a sniper rifle. They sent pictures,” she announces, offering him her phone. “The problem is that it seems like he was shot by someone inside his apartment, not outside.”

“And the gun?” He askes, analysing the pictures.

“Nothing was found so far.”

“This could have come from a Kalaschnikow, but I would check for a Zastava,” he completes, handing back her phone. Noticing her puzzled look, Sherlock reverts to politeness: “Good morning, Molly. How are you doing?”

“Oh, _now_ you decide to greet me properly?” Molly bawls in a mix of indignation and laughter. “And since when are you a weapons expert?”

“I’m not. It’s just that the ammunition you showed me is a 7.62, which is the usual calibre of an AK-47. However, Ms Thaw mentioned that she was supposed to be transported to Serbia. And the Zastava M91 is a Serbian sniper rifle, very similar to the Kalaschnikow. And it uses that exact same calibre,” he explains beaming, but is met with an exasperated look. “I’m sorry, Molly. I’m on a case and it is bothering me that I can’t get enough information about it,” he apologises, taking a deep breath.

“And what are you doing here? I could have sent you the pictures per email.” Molly asks, her anger already melting away.

“Since Mycroft is not giving me anything, I need to talk to Ms Thaw if I am to get ahead on this case,” he answers.

“So you didn’t come here to talk to me. You came to talk to her,” Molly completes, reckoning she was not Sherlock’s main interest.

“Both, actually. I was hoping you would help me talk to her.”

“Why would I do that?” She returns, infuriated now.

“Because you are more palatable than me.” His answer caused her to snort. “I know I can be very disagreeable at times, and I thought that your presence would mollify her disposition.”

“So, I’m to be your buffer?”

“Please?” He knew he could convince her; just needed to push the right button.

“Sherlock, I have a conference to attend!” She protests.

“Please. As friend.” Sherlock knew this was outrageous behaviour, but he was approaching desperation.

Molly stared at him as if she were gathering the strength to finally deny him something. Then, turning around and walking towards the elevator, she roared:

“Follow me!”

She spent the short elevator ride wondering why, even after what his sister did to her, she could not say no to Sherlock Holmes. There were okay now, but she had been quite shaken by his call; questioning the point of her friendship with him. She knew she had to be strong and demand respect from him, but it was not happening today.

As they walk out the elevator, his explanation of Ms Thaw’s case was interrupted by a large man who almost knocked Molly to the floor on his way to the elevator. Helping his friend steady her feet, Sherlock notices the sounds of a heart monitor alarm going off. Molly and he exchange a worried look and Molly starts running, leading the way to Clara’s room. At the door they can see that something was really wrong.

“She is in cardiac arrest!” Molly shouts, jumping to press the emergency button on the wall.

While doctors and nurses flood the room, Sherlock rushes back after the man who knocked Molly down. He is sure those were the manners of somebody on the run, but when he got back to the elevators, one was already descending. Acting quickly, he dashes to the stairs, skipping many steps at a time, even jumping over the balustrade at some point. He arrives at the ground floor just as the man leaves the elevator. In a very swift movement, he pounces on the other, causing both to fall. The altercation which follows soon caught the attention of the three hospital security-men, who had difficulty separating the two men.

“This man tried to kill a patient in this hospital,” Sherlock explains the moment he was on his feet again. “Do not let him leave!”

Stunned by the uncommon allegation, the security men could only stare at each other and at Sherlock.

“He caused a cardiac arrest in a patient who was recovering from surgery,” Sherlock explains, unnerved. “If you search his clothes, you _will_ find syringes or other medical supply that have caused Clara Thaw’s cardiac arrest,” he completes. The men still stared at each other dumbly until Sherlock shouted: “Go!”

While one held Sherlock back, the other checked the man’s pockets, while the third held the man’s arms behind his back. In the inner pocket of his sky jacket, the security guard finds two empty vials of potassium chloride. Freeing himself from the first guard’s hold, Sherlock snaps the vials and give them to one of the receptionists, who had gathered around to watch the fight, sending him to tell Molly what the poison was. Then, making sure the security guard has a good hold of the attacker, he introduces himself:

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a consulting detective with the Metropolitan Police. I ask you to call detective inspector Lestrade so _he_ can arrest this man, but in the meantime, I would like to ask him some questions,” he announces, staring firmly at the assailant’s face. Noting the shocked paralysis of the wardens, Sherlock pulls out his own phone and, with a groan, makes the call himself. Then he proceeds to question the attacker: “Who are you? Who are you working for? Why do you want to kill Ms Thaw?”

The man responds with a scornful laughter: “Ms Thaw! That’s her name now?” He continues laughing even louder. “Her name was Saskia last time _I_ met her.”

“Why do you want her dead?” Sherlock insists.

“It’s not me who wants her dead,” the man answers, stopping laughing but still smirking.

“Who sent you? Who is behind this?” Sherlock starts losing his patience. He examines the man and notices he was shaped like a bouncer, although his hands seemed to indicate little manual work. _Maybe some sort of nurse._ His laughter, one the other hand, appeared to indicate the man was too obtuse to have planned the assassination attempt by himself. He was, however, taking too much pleasure in what he had done. That troubled Sherlock somewhat. He was definitely not a simple hired killer.

“You don’t understand, do you? It doesn’t matter who is behind it. Everybody wants that bitch dead!” With that, he started laughing again, now even more loudly.

“Was it the Serbian?” Holmes tries a different path.

“Serbians, Bulgarians, Greeks, Russians, even English… Everybody is after that bitch!” The man seems to find everything extremely funny. “It’s payback time!” And he laughs on.

Stepping closer to the attacker, Sherlock says in a menacing tone: “You know what happened to the last one who tried to kill her?” At this, the man stops laughing, but still smiles smugly.

“Ya, I know. But no one gonna stop until the bitch is dead!” He takes a pause for a deep breath. “There will always come another one until there is nothing left of her.” And he starts laughing again. “But who says we’ll be needing anyone else? I did my job right and she is dead now!” He continues, after a while.

It is clear to Sherlock now that the kidnapping, the shooting and the assassination attempt are all connected; and that none of it had anything to do with Moriarty. He calls the one person who has all the knowledge.

“Mycroft, a man just gave Clara Thaw a possibly fatal dose of potassium chloride. If you want your precious secretary to remain alive, you _have_ to tell me who she is!”

This sends the assassin into a roaring laughing fit, while the rest of the room remains silent. Mycroft, seeming to have finally agreed with his brother, gives him instructions on how to proceed. Hanging up his phone, Sherlock sends a message to different recipients: “Lazarus’s going home.”

Almost instantly, Molly Hooper runs out of the elevator, shoving her phone into her pocket and looking rather grave.

“Sherlock! Here you are,” she says, walking quickly towards him.

“So? What are the prognostics?” Sherlock answer is as eager as his look.

“Oh, it doesn’t look very promising,” she says, appearing gloomier. “The doctors are doing what they can, but it doesn’t look good.” Sherlock’s head drops with defeat while the attacker bursts into laughter once again. “Good thing you caught this guy. He might be going down for murder soon,” Molly completes, facing with disgust the man being restrained by the guards.

“I told you, mate. It’s payback time!” He declares among cackles.

 

 

What follows happens as if rehearsed: Lestrade and a team from Scotland Yard arrive and arrest the attacker; the doctors pronounce Clara dead and Molly joins her friend Martha to help prepare the body; after a call from Sherlock, Mycroft notifies Lady Smallwood, who comes down to the hospital to recognise the body. There being no next of kin, Lady Smallwood decides for a cremation. All seems to go to plan, until the morgue is invaded by masked gunmen at night. Molly, left alone to finish all the reports about the event, is forced to show the corpse and must watch while the gunmen shoot it in the heart and in the head. Shaken, Molly calls Sherlock: “It’s done!”


	8. Sherlock Exclaims Sarcastically

Sherlock is sitting in the living room in Baker Street, concentrating on a case, when Mrs Hudson knocks on the door.

“Ooh-ooh!” He looks up, annoyed. “I came to check on the patient…?”

Sherlock buries his head back on his computer: “Upstairs. With John.”

As she walks up the stairs, Sherlock can hear a beeping sound, which gets louder when she opens the door. John’s room has been transformed into a hospital room, with medical machines and a special bed.

“How is she doing today?” Mrs Hudson asks.

“Improving slowly,” John answers with a sigh, standing up. “But still improving.” He stands with his back straight by the side of the bed, trying to hide his discomfort.

“Is she really getting any better? It’s so sad to see such a young girl in such a state.” Mrs Hudson asks, fussing with the bedcovers. Before John could even answer, she adds: “And so pretty! She could have been a nice one for you, John!”

The comment makes him stiffen even more: “She is a lot better today than she was when she arrived, Mrs Hudson! I’m confident she will make a full recover!”

The sound of the doorbell, followed by Sherlock shouting “Mrs Hudson,” saved him from any more awkward conversation. “This must be Molly to relief you from your duties!” The landlady explains, putting her arm around John before she moved on towards the door. Once she opened it, she stops to look back at the woman in the bed. Shaking her head, she says: “Oh! Such a pretty girl!”

When John finally comes down to the living room, Sherlock is telling Molly how far the investigation of the secretary’s case has come: the arrested attacker had led the police to at least five different criminal bosses, from different parts of Europe.

“It seems that, while working for the secret service, Ms Gavin has disrupted several of their operations, from arms and drugs deals, to people smuggling and sexual exploitation,” Sherlock explains. “So, they decided to get together and send a message to the service by killing their agent.”

“So, her name is actually Alexia?” Molly responds, meditative. “Not your run of the mill secretary after all, huh?”

“No. Not at all,” John answers. “Sherlock was right about that. From the little information Mycroft was willing to tell, Ms Gavin adopted the identity of Clara Thaw to hide from those criminals…”

Sherlock, pacing around the room, interrupted him: “Yes, but continuing working for the secret intelligence service is hardly what I call a good disguise. Especially if you’re an agent,” he completes, pausing to reflect. “There is something more. Why work as a secretary?” Silence was his only answer; followed by Mrs Hudson customary knock.

“Ooh-ooh! Boys, while you are all here talking, the girl is all alone upstairs…” She reminds them affectionately.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs Hudson. She is not going anywhere!” Sherlock boasts, returning to his computer and collapsing on his chair.

“Oh, Sherlock! That is not nice,” retorts the landlady upset. “She is our guest and she is sick. That is _not_ how you treat people,” she reprimands, as John led Molly upstairs, explaining the details of the patient’s care.

 

 

When Molly dashed into the living room looking distressed, Sherlock finally noticed it was already morning again, having worked through the night on his case.

“Sherlock, I need your help!” She announces, adjusting the laces of her shoes. “John is late because he is having problems with Rosie: So, I’m late for an important meeting at work. It’s my first day back from the leave since, you know, what happened at the morgue.” She stops to observe if the mention of the invasion causes any reaction. “Could you sit with her for half an hour until John shows up?”

“But she is not doing anything. Why does she have to be watched all the time?” Sherlock reacts bothered.

“All you have to do is sit there and keep an eye, so, in case something _does_ happen, we can react faster,” she explains patiently.

“But if something does happen, I am not a doctor. I won’t be able to do anything, will I?” He retorts sulking.

“You will be able to call an ambulance, instead of letting her condition get even worse until John does it when he arrives!” His selfishness was aggravating her. Everybody was working so hard to keep up _his_ plan. And he wouldn’t even bother to help out. “Please, Sherlock. As friend.” She tried using _his_ method for a change.

“But I am busy down here!” Sherlock protests.

“SHERLOCK!” Molly raises her voice, losing her patience. “You are sitting on a chair, tapping on your laptop. There is a chair upstairs. Take your laptop with you and do it there for half an hour until John arrives,” she almost shouts, pulling him up from his chair and shoving him in the direction of the door.

“But, but,” he tries to protest as she continues to push him upstairs, turning half the way to grab her coat and leave.

“And don’t forget to call an ambulance if anything happens!”

Vexed, Sherlock climbs the steps towards John’s former room moping. Once inside, he moves a chair away from the bed and closer to the door to get better Wi-Fi connection, and settles down with his laptop on his legs. Distracted, he watches over the patient for a couple of seconds, thinking of the intricate web of lies this woman has built during her life: Alexia Gavin has had so many aliases, she probably could not even remember all of them. Each of the criminals the police arrested knew her by a different name and a different profession. Clara Thaw wasn’t even the first secretary she impersonated. It was as if assuming a different life _was_ her real job.

Noticing the pattern of her breathing and checking her vital signs on the monitor, he dove back into his computer and his emails. Within ten minutes, the beeping on the monitor started accelerating. Slowly at first, but then, picking up pace. Sherlock gets up and walks to the bed to check, but as he soon as he touches her arm to see if the IV is still in place, she grabs his hand, squeezing it hard.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Her voice was hoarse and faint. Sherlock could see she was scared. He wondered what a secret service agent was capable of doing when cornered like this.

“Alexia, my name is Sherlock Holmes. You worked for my brother, Mycroft,” he explains in a commanding voice. “You are in 221b Baker Street. You are safe!”

Upon hearing the words “Baker Street,” she loosens her grasp on his hand and the beeping on the monitor slows down. “What am I doing here? What happened?”

“What is your last memory?” he asks, taking his sit on the chair by the door.

She thinks for a few seconds, her weakness clearly making it difficult. “I remember talking to John in the hospital.”

The use of his friend’s first name caught Sherlock’s attention. His assumption that John’s more gentle approach would make stablishing a connection easier was right: It was not only John who seemed to have developed some fondness.

“Well, after John left, a man named Harry Barley came to the hospital and poisoned you. Fortunately, I could catch him and tell Molly Hooper what the poison was, so she and the medical team could save your life.”

“Hooper?” She asks thoughtfully.

“She is a friend of mine who works at the morgue at Bart’s,” he explains nonchalantly, as if bragging about the connection. “She was at a conference at St Thomas.”

“I see…” Alexia responds absorbed. “But how did I get here?” She asks, pointing to the room itself and the medical equipment on it.

“Mr Barley was kind enough to tell me that the order to eliminate you was given by a consortium of criminals, with whom you concerned yourself in the past. So, we decided to let them believe Mr Barley was successful and brought you here.

At this moment, John bursts in through the door, flushed from running up the stairs.

“Sorry, Sherlock. Rosie had a very _toddler moment_ this morning. I had to… Oh!” He cuts himself short, noticing the patient was awake. “Ms Gavin is awake!” Forgetting completely what he was saying and shifting into his doctor-mode: “How is your pulse? 90 per minute; nice and steady. Good!” He says, checking the monitor next to the bed. “Blood pressure 135 per 88; that’s really good.” Both Sherlock and the patient observe stunned while John moves around, checking the machines and IV drip. “How are you feeling? Can you talk? It can be a bit hurtful after an intubation.” Before Ms Gavin can even answer, John takes full notice of his friend standing next to him. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

For a fraction of a second there is complete silence while even Sherlock seemed to acknowledge his own presence in the room. “Didn’t I tell you not to bother Ms Gavin while she recovers?” John continued, not letting his friend answer. “Was he questioning you?” He asked the patient, without waiting for a reply. “Didn’t I tell you not to question her while she mends? Get out!” He commands, pushing Sherlock towards the door.

“I was only here because Molly asked,” the detective interjects displeased. “If _you_ were not late, I wouldn’t even _be_ here.”

“Sherlock, while she is under _my_ care, I don’t want _you_ in this room,” he explains, nudging him out of the door.

“But it’s _my_ apartment!” Sherlock answers annoyed.

“Don’t care. You are _forbidden_ to bother her. Doctor’s orders,” John concludes, closing the door on his friend’s face.

Sherlock remains where he is, sulking. He can hear their conversation clearly:

“Was he bothering you, Ms Gavin?” John asks, a bit less frantic.

“No. He was just telling me what happened. No problem at all.” Ms Gavin’s voice is still coarse, but gained a bit of strength.

“Now, Ms Gavin, how are you feeling? Any nausea, pain or any other complaints?”

“I feel weak; like I’ve been hit by a truck.” There is a pause. “But there is one thing…”

“What is it?”

“In the hospital. You told me to call you John.” Another pause. “I hope that everything that clearly happened since then – I mean, you discovering my real name and all. I hope it hadn’t changed that.” Her voice sounds supplicant, almost begging.

“No, it didn’t change. You can call me John.” His voice is calm now.

“Good. Then I want you to call me Alexia.”

“Alexia,” John repeats warmly.

_Definitely a connection there_ , Sherlock thinks, walking down the stairs slowly. In his living room, he slouched onto the sofa and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Good morning, brother mine. Did you sleep well?” Sherlock asks in a mocking tone. “I don’t actually care, Mycroft. I’m only calling to tell that Ms Gavin has regained consciousness. John is examining her as we speak,” he explains, his tone changing to annoyed. “No, I did _not_ question her. Why do every body thing that is the _first thing_ I would do?”

 

 

Sherlock is analysing some crime scene photos on his laptop – the screen on his phone was too small for the details he needed for his case – when he hears the familiar sound of a limousine engine stop on the curb outside. The car’s door opens and the customary sound of Mycroft’s leather soled Oxfords ings on the sidewalk. _Fifteen minutes. This must have been a record_ , Sherlock thinks, checking his watch. A rap on the door announces his brother’s arrival.

“Ah, Mycroft, you didn’t take long,” he remarks with derision. “Afraid I might discover something you don’t want to tell me?”

“No, Sherlock. Lady Smallwood believes Ms Gavin would be safer somewhere else,” the brother answers, trying to remain patient. “I’m here to take her with me.”

“Absolutely not,” John, who just entered the room, interrupts. “Alexia is no condition to be transported. We already risked too much bringing her here. We are _not_ moving her again until she is strong enough.”

“Lady Smallwood believes Ms Gavin’s presence in here might call up too much attention and put you all in danger,” Mycroft explains, and with a deep sigh, slumps on the sofa.

“I don’t see how Alexia staying in my old bedroom calls anyone’s attention. She can’t even leave her bed at the moment,” John retorts visibly irritated.

“It’s not her going out that worries Lady Smallwood; it’s the out of ordinary movement,” he reveals, playing with the handle of his umbrella to maintain his composure.

“Which strangers?” John asks, on the edge of fury.

“He is referring to Molly, John. Her sleeping over here every other day is atypical for this household. Especially now that you don’t live here anymore,” Sherlock calmly explains, prompting a nod of agreement from Mycroft. “What your surveillance across the street failed to tell you, brother mine, is that we already have an explanation for that,” he says standing up from his desk. “The day Ms Gavin was brought here, Mrs Hudson was taken by Molly for a ride on an ambulance. For two days after that, she was not seen outside, with John and I taking turns in grocery shopping and carrying out other errands.” He paced up and down the living room, but maintained a calm, almost bored, tone in his voice. “Yesterday, Mrs Hudson finally graced Speedy’s, in my company, wearing a walker boot and a cane, showing everyone who cared to look how she broke her foot.” He finished with a smug smile. This time the nod came from John, who was staring at Mycroft with the same smug smile as his friend.

“Okay. I know when I am beaten. But the surveillance will stay across the street,” he insists, standing up from the sofa. “Now, I would like to talk to MS Gavin, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” John interrupts. “This woman went through a lot, and is still very weak. She needs her rest. I just gave her painkillers and she fell asleep.”

“Another time, then.” Mycroft accepts the situation and turns to leave the room, when Sherlock stops him:

“Are you afraid Ms Gavin might tell me something I ought not to know?” Sherlock asks, blocking the way to the door. “There is still something you don’t want me to know in this story, Mycroft.” The brothers stare each other down as if they are about to start a fight. “What secret does MS Gavin hold that is so important to you?”

“You did your part, Sherlock. You solved the case you were given and saved the girl. More than once even,” Mycroft counters with a fake smile. “It’s time to move on and leave other people’s business alone, brother mine,” he says, walking out of the apartment through the kitchen door.

John and Sherlock look at each other in a mix of self-satisfaction and doubt. Sherlock is the first one to speak:

“How _is_ the patient, really?” He asks complacently walking back to his desk.

“Oh, much better. Made incredible improvement in the last few days.” Sherlock smiles at his friend’s determination to lie to Mycroft without being asked. “She _is_ asleep, though. I wasn’t lying about that,” John explains, putting the kettle on.

“So, no need for around the clock supervision?”

“No. I’ll leave her on the ECG for the night, but as of tomorrow, I don’t think it will be necessary anymore.”

“So, you and Molly won’t need to sleep here?”

“No. We can put one of Rosie’s old baby monitors in there and you can call me if there is anything wrong.”

“Fantastic,” Sherlock exclaims sarcastically.


	9. Too Many Questions

When Mrs Hudson opened the door to Sherlock’s kitchen, she was surprised by his presence in the room. Usually, she would make him tea and set his breakfast hours before he would get out of his room or even simply get up from his computer.

“Mrs Hudson, I was thinking. Don’t you have a lot to do today?” He asks helping her set the breakfast things on a tray.

“Yes, I _do_. I have to clean the oven, the bathroom, vacuum clean the living room,” she starts tallying, for Sherlock’s dismay.

“So,” he interrupts her. “Wouldn’t it better if _I_ take Ms Gavin’s breakfast up to her, so _you_ could get started on that big list?”

“John said you are not supposed to go in there,” she tells him with doubt in her voice.

“But John doesn’t know how _busy_ you are, how much work you have to do elsewhere in this house,” he goes on, picking things from cabinets and the fridge. “ _I_ , on the other hand, have nothing to do and _could_ help you.” He waits to see her reaction. Noticing her uncertainty, he continues: “I _promise_ I won’t bother her. I’ll just bring the tray and leave.”

“Oh, no. You have to check how she is doing. See if she needs anything,” she says taking the tray and walking towards the door. “I better do it. You will do it wrong.”

“I’ll do it! I’ll check on her and I’ll report to John,” he says, jumping in front of her and taking the tray from her hands. “I’ll be at my best. I promise. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

She looks at him from top to bottom, still holding on to the tray. “Okay, but I’ll be listening to everything over the baby monitor,” she says, letting go of the tray to go fetch the monitor in the living room. When she turns around, he is already gone.

 

 

“Good morning, Ms Gavin,” he says opening the door with difficulty because of the breakfast tray.

“Holmes! Good thing you’re here,” she answers. “Now! Tell me how I got here.”

Sherlock feels a bit startled with her directness. Putting the tray on the dresser, he takes the baby monitor from the bedside table. “First of all, I’ll take care of this,” he says, turning it off. Looking back at her, he notices her inquisitive look. “I told you: We had to _kill you off_.” He pauses, watching her face, expecting some sort of reaction. She still stares back at him questioningly. For some reason, it makes Sherlock feel anxious. “Uhm… It was the only way to make them stop trying to kill you,” he says, picking up the breakfast tray from the dresser. “It was just a matter of time before one of them succeeded,” he adds, uncomfortably pacing around the room.

“Well, as you probably know by now, this isn’t the first time I fake my own death. I know _why_ it usually is done,” she explains to his astonishment. “What I want to know is _how_ it was done! Am I safe now?”

This question angers Sherlock: _how can she challenge one his plans; especially one that has already proved so helpful before_. But that is not everything that troubles him: The candour with which she talks about the lies of her past is extremely worrying. He wonders if she was capable of telling the truth at all.

“Look, this is not my first fake death either!” he answers, exasperated, placing the tray on the bed.

“Oh yes!” She answers, pondering. “Lazarus was a fun plan to work in… But, with all due respect, Moriarty was _one_ person.” She pauses to look at his now infuriated face. “One genially mad psychopath, but still _one_ person.” She tries to sit up on the bed, but the stiches on her back and stomach hurt too much when she moves. “What we are dealing here is _several_ criminal minds - some of them rather clever - spread throughout the world,” she explains to him, signalizing he should help her sit up. “I know none of them poses _the threat_ that Moriarty did, but some of them even _worked_ with him. They might have learned a thing or two.” She waits for a reaction from the detective, but as nothing comes, she continues: “I just want to be sure that I am safe and that I am not putting anyone in danger just by _staying_ here.” She seems to have stunned Sherlock into muteness. “Holmes,” she calls to no reaction. “Can you tell me how your plan worked this time?”

Sherlock is raging. _How can this woman reduce Moriarty, and all the trouble he caused, like this?_ Placing the tray over her lap, he uses the remote control on the bed to raise her bedhead, so she is sitting up. He looks at her complacently; she responds with narrowed eyes. He brings the chair closer to the bed and sits down.

“I can’t guarantee that no one will ever try to kill you again,” he says, resting his chin on his fingertips; fingers spread and pressed against each other as if praying. “But so far, nobody broke in here and shot you. So, I would consider the plan a success.”

“So far,” she completes provokingly. She plays listlessly with the food on the tray. “How did you do it this time?” She asks, taking a sip of the tea.

“Well, after Mr Barley so helpfully told us about his employers, we put on a show – for him and whomever wanted to hear it in that hospital. The doctors made a big fuss about _losing_ you on the table; _we_ also made a big deal, talking to each other loudly on the halls, calling each other from unsafe phones, even Lady Smallwood came down to _recognise_ your body.”

“And they _bought_ it?” She asks doubtfully.

“Well, once we got a body to show, I guess they did.”

“I’m guessing Molly Hooper helped with that.”

“Together with her friend Martha, yes,” he corrects her.

“But, if you had Mr Barley in custody, how did his bosses heard of his success? Do you think there was somebody _from the hospital_ working for them?”

“I don’t know that,” he said, slipping to the edge of his chair. “But they did send two other thugs to make sure you were dead. Are you going to eat that?” He described, taking one of the buttered toasts.

“Shot in the head?” She asks in a pragmatic manner.

“Yes. They put Molly on psychological leave for fear she had a PTSD,” he completes, facetiously.

“They did that _in front_ of her?” she asks. Sherlock nods in affirmation. “Poor Ms Hooper. She has suffered a lot just for being your friend, huh? How is she doing?” She asks, for the first time sounding a bit stunned by the news.

“She is a pathologist; she is used to seeing unpleasant things. She is fine. She is probably used to that sort of thing by now,” he answered, meticulously licking the tips of his fingers.

“You mean, from all the _shit_ you did to her already?” She asks, with a provoking smile.

“I guess you don’t want to know the rest, then,” Sherlock answers, joking to hide the fact that the question hurt him.

“No, no. Tell me more, please,” she begs, pushing the try away from her. “How did you bring me here? From what John told me, my condition was really delicate.”

“We kept you in the hospital under a different name until you could be safely conveyed here,” he continues, casually taking another toast.

“How did you bring me here without calling attention?”

“We put you inside a chest freezer,” he answers and immediately starts laughing at her shocked face – which makes her laugh back. Before she can ask him how he did it, he continues: “We gave you some strong sleeping medication, packed in the box with some oxygen tanks and brought you in through the café downstairs. John supervised everything. You were never in danger.”

“That is rather ingenious,” she retorts while he gleamed with pride. “How about all this equipment?”

“John told Mycroft what was necessary and it was all brought in as construction material,” he explains, repeating the cleansing of his fingertips.

“And your brother arranged all this?”

“Yes! But I planned everything,” he answers, annoyed at her fixation on Mycroft.

She stares at him, and then nods her head, smiling in approval: “Yes. Seems like you are just as brilliant as they said…”

Sherlock sits back in his chair. He notices that she hasn’t eaten anything: “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

“Since when do you care?” She answers, trying to provoke him again

“If I take the tray back without you eating anything, Mrs Hudson will get mad at me.”

“I can’t eat,” she replies, with a sly smile. “But you don’t have to tell her that _you_ were the one who ate the toast,” she adds with a wink.

Her light-hearted answer helps Sherlock shake off the rage she stirred in him just a few seconds before. Staring at her while she fumbled with the control to lower the bedhead again, he begun to process the information she has just given him: She knew Moriarty and what he did. Of course, everybody knows him – thanks to Euros, he was on every TV-set in Britain. But Alexia seems to have crossed paths with him while working on cases for the secret service. Even more, she clearly was part of the team Mycroft set up to execute Lazarus. She also seems to know Sherlock by reputation, but did she get that from the media or from working with Mycroft? And was that the reason why Mycroft protected her so much? Because they worked together? He never went through that much trouble to protect an agent before. He let Mary’s whole team be whipped out in Tbilisi… There were still too many questions unanswered. Sherlock thought it a good thing John did not allow Mycroft to take Ms Gavin somewhere else.

“Mycroft wanted to talk to you when he was there yesterday,” he says getting up and taking the tray from her lap.

“Mr Holmes was here?” She asks, looking startled.

“Yes. He wanted to take you somewhere else,” he says as he walks towards the door. “John didn’t let him. Played his _I’m a doctor_ card.”

She beams in a kind way, clearly tired. “That’s nice of him, but I guess I should talk to Mr Holmes. Debrief,” she completes, closing her eyes.

Sherlock waits a couple of seconds by the door, and then moves cautiously out of the room, letting Alexia sleep. There are still too many questions.


	10. A Phone Book

Time goes by and Alexia’s condition improves every day. Sherlock’s days delivering her room service were over as soon as John found out she wasn’t really eating anything. Mrs Hudson took over the job and, after a week, Alexia is feeling so much better that John even allows Mycroft to set a meeting, to discuss the actions of the future.

As everybody agrees that a visit by Lady Smallwood would be calling too much attention to Baker Street, a video conference is arranged. At the agreed time, Sherlock and Mycroft sit impatiently on chairs around Alexia’s bed, while John organises the laptop for the video chat, and Mrs Hudson waves in an out of the room, carrying tea things.

The interchange is very respectful and Sherlock notices how Lady Smallwood treats Alexia very friendly. Not like one would treat a co-worker or an employee, but almost like a relative. There is a lot of deference, but seems like the older woman tries her best to protect the younger. And this, he also notes, seems to influence the way his brother behaves towards Alexia as well. He is not as warm as Lady Smallwood, but he is not his usual irascible self as well.

It’s decided that Alexia should stay in Baker Street until she is fully recovered, but the secret intelligence services will send someone to oversee her treatment, so that John and Sherlock can still lead their lives as normally as possible. John does not agree:

“What do you mean; _oversee_?” He asks, fuming. “I’ve been doing a very good job taking care of her so far. Now you want to send in someone else?”

“Calm down, Dr Watson,” Mycroft tries to tranquilize him. “It’s just so that an appearance of normality can be restored and you have more time for your own business.”

“ _Now_ you care about my business?” John bursts out of his chair in a fit of rage, surprising the others. “When you _closed_ my surgery in the middle of the day so I would get Sherlock to answer your call, you didn’t seem to care that much about my business.”

“Maybe we should ask Ms Thaw what _she_ would like to do, instead of hurling accusations against each other,” Sherlock interrupts before Mycroft can answer. All of them look at her, including John, who is still infuriated. Alexia takes a few seconds to consider and replies directly to John:

“Maybe they could send someone to _help_ you around, not _take over_ from you,” she says in a mousy voice. John stops pacing the length of the bed and stares at her face. “I mean someone like a nurse or a physiotherapist, who would help you, but not take over.

This seems to soothe John enough for him to sit back in his chair with a nod. “But I would still be in charge.”

“Yes,” Alexia answers. “Your ladyship, I was thinking of Max.”

“Mr Fairbairn?” Lady Smallwood asks thoughtfully. “That might be a good idea. I will check if he is available,” she adds with a little smile. “Now, if we are all understood, I would like to get on with my day. I still have a cabinet meeting to attend.”

This triggers the end of the meeting. Mycroft takes the laptop and heads downstairs, talking about the details with Lady Smallwood. Sherlock makes sure John is okay before following. Once they are alone, Alexia tries to comfort John:

“You will like Max. He is a very good physiotherapist.”

“I don’t like the idea of having someone I’ve never met _prancing_ around here, bossing me.”

“He won’t boss you. I know him. We’ve worked together before,” she says, still trying to calm him down.

“Still, I don’t like to be replaced in my own house.”

“Nobody will place you, John,” she said, reaching out for his hand. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you and I don’t want _any_ other doctor taking care of me.” She smiles, looking for a smile on his face. “Don’t worry. Max won’t be in your way.”

John nods, letting go of her hand, unconvinced. “Rest now. You had enough for today,” he says walking towards the door.

 

 

In the evening, after John has gone home and Mrs Hudson has finally gone back to her own apartment, Sherlock is sitting at his desk, going over some prospective cases which popped up on his website, when a noise from the baby monitor makes him start.

“Holmes? Are you there?” Alexia’s voice sounds timid, but at the same time, engaging. “Holmes, can you hear me?”

Picking up the baby monitor, Sherlock climbs the stairs to John’s room with very loud steps, while Alexia still tries to contact him. He opens the door to the room with a swift move and shows her the monitor:

“This is _not_ a walkie-talkie. It does _not_ work both ways,” he says, making sure his voice sounds as annoyed as possible. “I can hear you, but I _cannot_ talk to you,” he concludes; his voice now thunderous. Noticing Alexia shrinking in the bed, he asks in a much gentler manner: “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Alexia answers, regretting having called him in the first place.

“Now I came all the way up here. Tell me what you want.” Sherlock ordered making sure he was not so noisy as before.

“Well,” she says in her mousy voice. “It’s just that I’m feeling kinda bored,” she explains, avoiding his eyes. “And there is _nothing_ in this room to help with that. Not even a telephone book.”

“Why didn’t you go down and get a book?”

“I’m not well enough to get out of bed yet.”

“Then go back to sleep.”

“I feel too good to sleep all day now,” she explains, sitting up on the bed and fluffing the pillows behind her head.

“Why don’t you pump up some of those IV painkillers and have a great time then?” He asks scornfully.

“Because I’m not you!” She answers in an offended, hurtful tone. “I don’t want to get high; I just want something to help me against the monotony. Now I regret I even asked.”

After a few seconds of tense sulking from both sides, Sherlock takes a more conciliatory approach:

“And now, you want me to go back and bring you a book?”

“No. You could just stay here and talk to me a bit,” Alexia answers, recognising his effort.

Sherlock is once again surprised by the feelings this woman provoked in him: One second she would say something infuriating; the next, she would make him laugh. He could not decide whether he could trust her or not. Specially because there were still so many things he didn’t know about her. He decides to take advantage of the situation and question her.

“Ok, I will stay here and talk to you, but only under _one_ condition” he says, dragging a chair closer to the bed. With a nod, she signals him to go on. “If I am supposed to keep you in my home for such a long time, it’s only logical that I need to know if he can trust you,” he continues, making a show of the act of sitting down of a chair. “My condition is that you answer _all_ of my questions.”

She stares at him, considering if things would not be easier if she just went to Mycroft’s safe house. Fixing on a plan of action, she says: “I agree that you need to know a bit more about me to be able to trust me. And I am very thankful for all you have done for me so far, even though you know so little about me.” Her eyes were a mix of supplicant and engaging. “But there are limits to what I can tell you. Some of the cases I worked on are still open and telling you can put other people in danger. I will _not_ do _that_ to gain your trust.”

“Do I have to remind you that it is _you_ who lies and deceives for a living? Not me?” He protests with a touch of indignation.

“Do the words BOND AIR mean anything to you?” She answers in the same hurtful tone she used moments before. “You ruined a perfectly good operation; a year’s worth of many people’s work, because of a _woman_!!!” Now she was the indignant one. Sherlock, annoyed to the utmost level, acknowledges she is right with a nod and sinks in his chair. “So,” she continues, more calmly. “You can ask questions and _I’ll_ decide if I can answer them. Would that be okay?”

Sherlock agrees sitting up on his chair, as if he is dealing with one of his clients: “How did you meet Lady Smallwood?”

“Humf… You go straight to the jugular, don’t you?” She adds, struggling for a more comfortable on the bed. This might take a while. “Well, all I can say is that she saved my life when I was really young. And she gave me an opportunity later. I can’t tell you the exact details,” she explained, searching for any reaction on his face. Sherlock remained firm on is chair. “It involves work that she used to do.” She checks if Sherlock demonstrates any acceptance, but to no avail. “It’s not only _my_ story to tell!” She declares, moving uncomfortably up the bed.

“Is Alexia Gavin your real name?”

“It is the name I took when I got the British citizenship. So, in a way: yes!”

“I take it from your accent that you at least grew up in Germany or Austria?”

“Germany. Munique to be exact…”

“But you left when you were young. You were old enough, however, to retain a bit of the accent. I would say around 14, 15?”

“16. Very good,” She answers with an awkward smile, avoiding his gaze.

“Your file does not account for what you did for one year and a half, about eight years ago,” Sherlock continues, striving to maintain focus. “What were your whereabouts?”

“Ooooh, am I a suspect on a case?” She jokes, trying to stablish a flirty mood.

“Just answer the question, Ms Gavin. My brother seems to know your every step since you joined the secret service, aged 20. How come there is an _18 months gap_ eight years ago?”

“Okay, serious now,” she says, still playful. “I have no idea why your brother omitted this information from the file. The only reason I can think of is that it was probably the time I had _left_ the Service.”

“You _left_ the service?” She nods in response. “And came back 18 months later, like on a gap-year or something?” He looks a bit shocked.

“Well, not completely. I was in some sort of training. Sort of an outsider group, still working for the government, but not completely tide up to it.” Sherlock looks as if he did not understand. “Like a boot camp.” Alexia gets a bit contemplative; takes a while to go on. “Once the training was finished, I re-joined the service,” she finishes matter-of-factly.

“And then you moved to America?”

“Yes, but I can’t talk about that,” She says, smiling a fake smile.

“The case is stillopen …” Sherlock agrees, nodding; making Alexia turn her fake smile into a real one.

“You’re getting the hang of it.” She winks at him.

Containing his own smile, Sherlock stands up: “If the case is still open, why did you come back?”

“I was needed in London, so I came back.” She is back to her matter-of-fact tone, staring at the door, not looking at Sherlock.

“Who needed you? Lady Smallwood?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Mycroft?”

She just shakes her head: “What is it with you and your brother? This is _beyond_ sibling rivalry already.”

“If you _knew_ the terrible things he has done, you wouldn’t trust him.”

“Mr Holmes is one of the very few people in this world I trust,” she tells him dead serious. “And I _do_ know him for a long time.”

Sherlock tries to ignore the last comment and stars to pace slowly the length of the room. “Why would someone need a specialist in disguise as a secretary?” She remains still, staring at the door. “Yes, I thought that was more of a rhetorical question anyway. But you will have to answer why you left an open case to work as secretary. I fail to find a contingence where that information might hurt someone.”

Alexia takes a deep breath. She looks tired and a bit aggravated now. “I will give you the short version of it, if you promise me not to ask me about it anymore and to let me rest afterwards.” He nods. “Okay! I needed to monitor some individuals here in London. And, as I heard of the Norbury incident, I asked Lady Smallwood if I could be her new secretary.”

“So, you could still work for the service and keep an eye on whomever you had to keep an eye on?”

“Yes.”

“So, you are telling me you became a secretary by choice?” He asks sitting down. She nods. “And you want me to believe that?”

“I am not lying to you anymore, Holmes. Whatever I cannot tell you, I won’t. All the rest is the truth.” Sherlock becomes very quiet and meditative. “Are we done?” She asks in a demanding tone. Any trace of play is gone from her voice. He nods, hands under his chin, contemplative. “If you don’t mind, this was a long day. John said I should not overdo it. So…” No reaction. “Holmes?”

“Hum?” Still thinking.

“I would like to sleep now.”

“Oh, of course. Of course.” He gets up and walks to the door as if he is measuring the distance. At the door, he turns to her, as if he just remembered she was there: “This has been helpful. Thank you!”

 

 

The next morning, as Alexia wakes up, she notices a pile of books sitting on the bedside table. On top of the heap rests a phone book.


	11. Be Patient

One morning, as Sherlock arrives at Baker Street from solving another case, he can hear voices from his living room as he climbs up the stairs. Opening the door, he finds Mrs Hudson serving tea to a very strong stranger, who could only be described as pleasantly looking.

“Oh, Sherlock. You were taking such a long time to come home, I had to let your next client in,” she explains, offering the man biscuits.

“He is obviously _not_ a client, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock answers, hanging his coat and scarf. “He is a Scottish physiotherapist, here to see Ms Gavin,” he completes, walking towards his chair.

“How do you know I’m not a killer?” The man asks in a Scottish accent.

“Well,” Sherlock answers, lazily pouring a cup of tea. “You’re wearing a very expensive watch, paired with very expensive sneakers, which tell me you are a successful person, who likes costly things.” He takes a sip of his tea. “Your clothes are elegant, expensive even, but they aren’t social ones. A banker or a layer would be wearing a suit, but you dressed with comfort, not style, in mind.” He takes another sip before continuing. “You could be a doctor. Doctors wear comfortable clothes – my friend John being a good example. But your clothes are more than simply comfortable; they allow you freedom of movement. You also paired them with trainers, so you are either a teenager or in a profession that requires you to move your body a lot. So, unless you are some sort of dancer or footballer, you _must_ be a physiotherapist,” Sherlock concludes, drinking the rest of his tea.

“Very good, Mr Holmes,” the man congratulates him admired. “But how did you know I’m Scottish?”

“Well, Lady Smallwood said yesterday she was contacting a Maxwell Fairbairn. That is a _very_ Scottish last name.” He helps himself to a biscuit.

“And how do you know I’m successful?”

“You are making a house visit within less than _twelve_ hours of Lady Smallwood’s call. That sort of service does _not_ come up cheap.”

“Indeed, my prices _are_ steep,” Mr Fairbairn answers blushing. “But I work for the Ministry of Defence, not Lady Smallwood.”

Sherlock raises his brows in acknowledgement. “One thing I don’t understand, though: what is in the suitcases?” Sherlock asks, pointing to the luggage left and right of the Fairbairn’s chair.

“Some of Alexia’s belongings,” Fairbairn says, placing his cup on the side table. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to talk to her.”

“Perhaps it will be better if we wait for John to get here,” Sherlock proposes. “He is the one who knows all of her medical records.”

“Mr Holmes,” Fairbairn says standing up. “Alexia is an old friend of mine, an old friend, who was attacked and almost died. I would like to see her now, _independent_ of her medical records.”

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson exchange an impressed look. He stands up and walks toward the door. “Okay, but I will go with you. You _could_ , after all, be an immature killer,” he says with a frown.

 

 

The noise Alexia made the moment she saw Mr Fairbairn enter the room was so loud, Sherlock had to cover his ears. Fairbairn rushed to the side of the bed and the couple embraced very warmly.

“Max, it’s so good to see you!” Alexia tells him, full of glee.

“Look at you, Lass. You don’t look so bad. Are you sure you were shot?” He says jokingly.

“Right? It’s not even close to Budapest!” she says, sitting up on the bed.

“ _Nothing_ is as bad as Budapest,” he retorts and both of them laugh.

Their affection makes Sherlock feel uncomfortable. He usually liked being left out of other people’s meaningless conversation, but, in this case, he felt that somewhere among all the banter and insider jokes, there could be a piece of information he needed to find out what Mycroft was hiding. He stands by the door and watches the couple reminisce, feeling like an outsider and sulking about it.

Within less than ten minutes, John bursts through the door, fuming. He stops, catching his breath and staring at the big man by the bed. Then, turning to his friend, he complains:

“What the hell, Sherlock! Didn’t I say that I didn’t want to be excluded from Alexia’s treatment?”

Before the detective can say anything, Alexia interposes gently: “Nobody is excluding you of anything, John. Max is my _friend_ and he is here to _help_ me.”

Mr Fairbairn moved away from the bed, towards John: “Doctor Watson, I don’t know what Alex here told you, but I am simply a physiotherapist. I _couldn’t_ substitute you if I wanted to.” All of them can see that John felt a little reassured by this speech. “What I actually want to do is work _with_ you.”

“How do you intent to do that? If I may ask,” John retorts a bit more relaxed, but still angry.

“Well, for starters, I would like _you_ to show me her records so we can decide _together_ what we can do.”

The doctor stands staring at the couple. The tension is still high and not even Sherlock dares to say anything. Until Alexia breaks the silence:

“It’s either Max or I go to the safe-house,” Alexia says, at the same time threatening and panicking.

“And what is so bad about this safe-house?” Sherlock asks, calling her bluff.

“Oh, it would actually be quite okay there,” Alexia answers, raising her bet, annoyed. “I wouldn’t have to answer any questions _there_.” The detective and the doctor look at each other alarmed, and she knows she had them where she wanted. “Look, John, I’ve worked with Max before. You can trust him,” she says in a more conciliating tone. “You can trust _me_. I won’t do _anything_ he asks me to do without your approval,” she completes, in her usual playful tone. “I promise.”

John can’t help but smirk at the quirky comment. Noticing the softening of the mood, Fairbairn takes the opportunity:

“So, Doctor Watson, would, _please_ , show me her records,” he says extending one hand in John’s direction. “Because if there is one thing I need to know if we can do is to give this woman a shower. Lass, you’re boggin!” He says jokingly, causing a roar of laughter from John and an attempt to hit him from Alexia.

Sherlock is still not convinced by the newcomer, and, while John and Fairbairn discuss Alexia’s health, he remains in the room, pretending to take extreme interest in the furniture. He is startled by Alexia’s voice, calling him.

“Holmes! Come here.” As he approaches the bed, she continues: “I wanted to thank you for bringing me the books,” she says with an honest smile. “They were really helpful.”

“I wonder if you would get that kind of treatment in the safe-house,” he answers, a touch of flirt on his voice. The moment he hears his tone, he wonders why he was talking like that. Alexia’s smile brightens even more, but they are abruptly interrupted.

“Forget what I said before, hen,” Fairbairn announces to Alexia. “This is _way_ worse that Budapest!” He says, reading her chart.

“It can’t be. I didn’t even get a collapsed lung this time,” Alexia answers, still smiling.

“You didn’t lose this much blood in Budapest!” Fairbairn declares.

“What happened in Budapest?” Sherlock finally asks, giving in to curiosity.

“She jumped from the Elisabeth Bridge,” Fairbairn explains, still reading her records.

“Why would you do _that_?” Sherlock inquires.

“Says the man who jumped from the roof of Bart’s,” Alexia retorts, flirty. “They were shooting at me, so I had to jump to scape,” she explains nonchalantly.

“After jumping from a moving car,” Fairbairn completes.

“Care to explain, Ms Gavin?” Sherlock asks inquisitive.

“Oh, it was nothing,” Alexia protests and sulks a bit.

“If you don’t tell them, I will,” Fairbairn teases.

“Okay,” she responds exasperated. “A group of arms dealers discovered me while I was handling an agent I had inside their operation. They were taking me to, let’s call it, a undisclosed location. And in my experience, that never means they will serve you tea and let you go. So, it was either jump or get shot. So I jumped”

“But you still hurt yourself?” John asks.

“Badly: one broken clavicle, three broken ribs, a perforated lung and a dislocated hip,” Fairbairn explains. “She was lucky the police was already chasing them, so she got help quickly.”

“And Max was there to help me get better,” Alexia says, stretching her arms to reach for the man. “All the _long_ six months that it took.”

“But I don’t know even how to start with you this time,” Fairbairn answers, ignoring her flirt and sitting on the end of the bed. “You are _seriously_ anaemic, hen.”

“She is definitely not fit for any physiotherapy,” John comments, flipping the pages of her patient record. “She’s been taking iron supplements orally, but she seems to be absorbing them _very_ slowly.”

“But there are still a couple of things _we_ can do,” Fairbairn interjects, turning towards the doctor. “You see, my work goes beyond therapy as such. My aim is to improve general fitness, and that includes providing nutritional guidelines. I can prepare food that will improve the absorption of iron…”

“Oh, no. I forgot about your cooking,” Alexia interrupts, making faces.

While John and Fairbairn continue to discuss Alexia’s prospects, Sherlock approaches her.

“Do you really trust him?”

“Yes. I’ve known him forever. He is one of the few friends I have in life.”

“Since Budapest” he interrupts her sullenly.

“Since _before_ Budapest,” she answers. “Max works as some sort of fitness trainer for field agents. He is responsible for keeping us fit,” she completes with a smile. “I’ve known him since I joined the service.”

“And when was that?”

“In my twenties. Are you questioning me again, Holmes?”

“Of course. If Mr Fairbairn is to be in and out of this house, I need to have more information.”

Alexia gets aggravated with his prying. “ _I_ trust him. Your _brother_ trusts him. _Lady Smallwood_ trusts him. The _secret intelligent service_ trusts him. I think _you_ can do it too.”

“The secret intelligent service trusts _you_ , but I’m still unconvinced.”

“ _Seriously_? And you meet _all_ of your clients in advance before they come _in_ here?” She asks clearly hurt.

“Each of my clients only comes in here once or twice. You, and now Mr Fairbairn, reside semi-permanently. There is a _big_ difference,” he explains self-righteously.

“Holmes, I don’t get you,” she replies irritated. “If you don’t _trust_ me, why keep me here?” She goes on, her voice growing agitated, while her heart races. “You could have let Lady Smallwood take me to the safe house, but, for _some reason_ , you brought me here. And now you keep saying you can’t trust me. That is _quite_ inconsistent.”

“It’s because I haven’t _solved_ you yet,” Sherlock shouts irritated. Silence falls over the room as the others stare at him stunned. Alexia is the first to speak:

Alexia is now furious: “What do you _mean_ , _solve me_?” She asks, fighting not only the rage building up inside of her, but also an irresistible feeling of weakness. “Am I supposed to be a _problem_? Something you are supposed to _crack_?” She goes on, feeling sweat drenching her hair. Restless, she tries to understand why all noises sound so muffled, but before she can even organize her thoughts, everything goes dark.

John and Max spring into action, plugging her back into the ECG monitor and elevating her feet. Once they stabilize her, John busied himself with Sherlock:

“Sherlock, what the _hell_ were you doing?” He asks angrily. “Didn’t I tell you to while to stay out of this room while she is under _my_ care?”

Sherlock is absolutely livid. Not at John; not even at Alexia, but at himself for reacting the way he did. For some reason he could still not understand, this woman had a strange effect on him. He felt like he had to prove something to her, but not in the same way he did with Irene Adler. With Irene, he was showing off. Alexia provoked him to the point where he could not control himself anymore. He could not summon his wits to answer John’s question.

“Right now, she is _my_ patient, and, even if she is flirty and sassy, she is still in a _very_ bad condition,” John continues. “If I didn’t let Mycroft bother her, I won’t let _you_ bother her either. Stay away until she gets better or you will have a _big_ problem with me.”

With that, Sherlock walks out of the room, slamming the door after him. John’s overprotection of Ms Gavin was irritating. She was, first of all, a case, _than_ a patient. Maybe he was taking this connection they’ve stablished a bit too far. Knowing John’s current neediness, Sherlock supposed his friend was _very possibly_ developing feelings towards her. This could be helpful at some moments, but right now, it was unnerving.

Later that night, after Fairbairn had gone home, and John was done taking care of Alexia, he headed down to Sherlock’s living room so they could talk. He finds his friend brooding in his chair and decides to be as direct as possible:

“Sherlock, what was _that_ upstairs?” He asks, taking his customary chair in front of his friend’s. Sherlock remains silent, so he goes on. “What are you trying to do, because I don’t understand what the _plan_ is?”

“My plan is to discover what Ms Gavin and Mycroft and Lady Smallwood are hiding from us,” Sherlock replies affronted. “And I would be making a lot more progress if y _ou_ weren’t letting your _feelings_ for her get on the way of _my_ investigation!” He lashes out.

“My _feelings_? I don’t have _feelings_ for Alexia. Our relationship is merely a doctor/patient one,” John justifies himself.

“Oh! And you’re _always_ this touchy feely with all of your patients?

“WHAT? What do you mean?” John asks indignant.

“Oh, don’t act as if it’s not true John. All this _Alex_ this, and _John_ that… And all the touching. You never do _that_ to other patients!”

John snorts in disbelief, but feels a pinch of remorse, as he thinks about how Alexia reminds him of Mary. “Okay, maybe I treat Alex a bit differently, but it’s not because I have _feelings_ for her.” Sherlock’s accusations make him feel angry and sad at the same time. “Her wounds; the way she tried to protect you… She reminds me of Mary.”

Sherlock is stunned. Not by John’s sentiments, but by his own incapacity of noticing them. They both sit in silence for a while before the detective says: “Of course you know she is _not_ Mary,” he reminds the doctor in a kinder tone. “We _barely_ know her and we can’t say for sure she _is_ what she _says_ she is.”

“Just because she disguises herself for a living, it does not make her a criminal,” John counterpoints.

“It doesn’t improve her reliability either,” Sherlock rebuts.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I just feel like I can _trust_ her,” John explains, nodding his head.

“Oh, you’re too old for trusting people so blindly, John!”

“Mary was an assassin and I trusted her. And it was the best decision I’ve _ever_ made in my whole life,” he answers restlessly. “Besides, I trusted _you_ kinda blindly too. And it worked out half way okay,” he adds with a smirk.

“Still, Sherlock retorts. “I would feel safer if we knew more about her.”

“Okay, but I don’t understand the tactics you’re using right now. One moment you’re flirting with her; the next you’re treating her like a crook. This way, she will be out of here the moment she can _limp_ out of that door. Do you really think you will get anywhere with this?

Sherlock has to consider John’s point for a moment. “Maybe I _am_ being a little too _rigorous_ in my approach. You manage to get information more easily with your _kindly_ method.”

“Who would you rather talk to? The guy who is _threatening_ you, or the guy who is your friend? _Trust_ works both ways, Sherlock.” John replies meditative. Sherlock reluctantly nods. “Did you get anything _at all_ from her so far?” The doctor inquires.

“Well, she was _kind_ enough to answer some of my questions and it helped closing some of the gaps on her curriculum. But it also prompted other questions.”

“What questions?”

“She is, of course not a secretary, but a secret intelligence agent, who used to work for Mycroft.”

“Of course,” John interrupts.

“But she has been, however, legitimately working as Lady Smallwood’s secretary since the Norbury incident.” John contorts in discomfort at the sound of the name. “I still can’t figure out why. This is most probably a cover up, but for what?”

“Maybe that is what Mycroft doesn’t want to tell you.”

“Possibly.”

“But what could be so important that he wouldn’t want _you_ know?” John asks intrigued.

“I don’t know. And that is the reason why I need Ms Gavin’s cooperation.”

“So, you better treat her nicely, or she won’t help you” John says standing up and picking up his things. “And you better give her time to heal, or _I_ will be on your way.”

“Don’t you think she will go away the moment she feels better, to avoid talking to me?”

“Not if she trusts you,” John says putting his jacket on.

“Okay. I’ll try your method.” Sherlock announces as his friend leaves.

 

 

Alexia woke up from the beeping of the ECG monitor. Looking around the room, she found Max staring at her from the chair next to the bed. He smiled, stood up and reached for her right hand. She noticed how the left one was connected to an IV drop.

“What happened?” She asks, stretching as if she had just woken up from a nice nap.

“You had a syncope. You and Sherlock had a little _heated_ argument,” he says, caressing her hand. “Too much excitement, too little oxygen in the brain.”

“Oh, yes. I remember.” She tries to sit in a more comfortable position but fails. “I’m starting to wonder if I’m actually _safe_ around here.”

“Come on, Alex. You gotta be kidding,” Max says helping her with her pillows. “They _saved_ you. _Twice_. If they wanted to harm you, why would they go through all that trouble?”

Alexia looks at him displeased. “I know, but that thing with Holmes wanting to _solve_ me was creepy. You have to admit that!”

“Oh, he just wants to know who you are,” he tries to appease her. “You are not _exactly_ an open book, Alexia.”

“But he knows everything he _needs_ to know about me. I told him all the things I’m _allowed_ to.”

“You didn’t tell him _everything_ , now, did you?” He stares at her knowingly.

“I can’t tell him _that_ , Max. They wouldn’t understand,” she answers uneasy. “Besides, I bet he already figured that out. He is _the great Sherlock Holmes_.”

Max smiles at the comment. “He is a bit _intense_ , isn’t he?” He goes back to the chair. “Still, I don’t think you should worry. Whatever Holmes has on his mind, Doctor Watson is definitely on your side. He is doing a great job.”

“Yes, John is great. But already _knew_ that, didn’t we?” She smiles gently at him. “Where is he, by the way?”

“Out to get your iron infusion. He is taking good care of you.”

“Right,” she answers thoughtfully. “But still I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off in the safe-house. Nobody asked _me_ if I agreed with this whole plan.”

“Alexia, at the moment, you’re being very good cared for by the doctor. Holmes might be a bit kinky but he has been keeping you safe. I guess you will have to be patient.”


	12. His First Real “Girlfriend”

Some days go by and Sherlock keeps his distance from the upstairs room. He is still curious about what secrets Alexia is hiding, but, after his conversation with John, he decides to concentrate his investigation on the criminals who tried to kill her. At least until John allows him to question Alexia again. The presence of Max Fairbairn in the house, however, still bothers him. Not only Mrs Hudson keeps gushing about him all the time - how handsome and well-mannered he is; but now even John seems to have fallen under the Scotsman’s spell, claiming that the man is not only well intentioned; he also knows what he was doing. John even has the audacity to suggest that, due to his long-time friendship with Alexia, Fairbairn could be a good source of information about the woman, if Sherlock could get him to talk.

After a few days of redoubled attention from Watson and constant care from Fairbairn, Alexia’s condition improves so much, she is able to get out of bed and move around the room. At the end of a week, she can take a stroll into the living room supported by Max and John. Mrs Hudson decides the occasion demands a celebration and _delights_ everyone with a fancy afternoon tea. Sherlock decides to adopt a more amiable attitude towards their ward:

“Good to see you out of the room, Ms Gavin,” he says the moment she settles on the sofa.

“Thank you, Holmes. I’m glad to be out of there,” she answers with a bright smile. “I have a lot to thank my _wonderful_ medical team.”

“They have been working a lot to help you,” he completes, attempting to be polite. There is an uncomfortable strain between the two, but both do their best to remain civil. “May I ask what will be the next step in Ms Gavin’s _recovery plan_?” Sherlock directs his question towards John, who is sitting on his usual chair.

“Well, that is something we wanted to talk to you about,” Fairbairn answers, turning to John for support.

“We were wondering if Max and Alex could use the living room to do some exercises,” John asks.

“What?” Sherlock asks irked.

“You see, Mr Holmes. Alex needs to start some stretching workouts or it will be _much_ more difficult to recover her musculature later,” Fairbairn explains. “There is just not enough room for it upstairs.”

“It wouldn’t take much more than one hour and they wouldn’t use much space,” John adds.

Sherlock takes his time thinking. He slowly sips on his tea before he answers: “Oh, why not. I’ve done much worse in here myself,” he says with a gleeful smile.

 

 

Later that night, after John, Max and Mrs Hudson have gone home, Sherlock hears the sound of steps coming down the stairs. In a few seconds, Alexia opens the door to the living room, in her pyjamas.

“Ms Gavin, is everything alright?” he asks, getting up from his computer desk.

“Everything okay, Holmes. Just bored upstairs,” she explains, strutting towards the sofa. “I’ve already read _all_ the books you left me _three_ times. Do you mind if I stay here while you work?” She asks, preparing to sit down.

“If you promise to stay quiet and let me work,” he says sitting back down and focusing on his computer. After a couple of clicks, she interrupts:

“I’ve noticed that you haven’t asked me any questions today,” she asks, nonchalantly examining the newspaper. “Did you _solve_ me already? Or are you afraid of what John might do?” She asks cheekily.

Sherlock has to stop what he is doing and look at her: _Is she really provoking me?_

“You’ve told me _enough_ for me to come to my own conclusions,” he answers seriously, trying to refocus on his work. “For the time being,” he adds, trying to be playful.

“Good, because there is _nothing_ else I can tell you,” she continues, standing up to check the bookshelf.

“Good,” he retorts. Pretending to be working, he keeps an eye on Alexia while she fidgets around the room. “Ms Gavin, can I help you with anything?” he asks, feigning annoyance.

“No! No, just trying to find something to entertain myself,” she says, tilting her head to read the spine of a book. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

Sherlock goes on, pretending to work, while she moves around. After studying his books, she moves to the window. She stares out for a couple of seconds and comments:

“So, they put Sterling on surveillance, huh? I hope you don’t have any good looking young neighbours around here.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing,” she replies. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

“But you _are_ disturbing me!” He says without raising his eyes from the computer.

“Sorry! I’ll stop.” She moves back to the bookshelf, picks up “Signature Killers” and goes back to the sofa. After flickering through the pages, she continues:

“Did you discover something else about my case?”

“Nope. Nothing new since our last meeting with Mycroft,” Sherlock says, holding his head between his hands in mock dejection. “Ms Gavin, our deal was that you would let me work. If you are going to keep disturbing me, I _will_ question you just for the _fun_ of it.”

Smiling at what she recognised as an attempt at joking, she stands up and walks to him: “Sorry! It’s just that I’m _so_ bored. I feel like I haven’t used my brain in _months_. It’s driving me crazy.”

“I know the feeling.”

“What are you working on?” She asks, catching a glimpse of his computer screen.

“A case,” he replies, getting genuinely annoyed now.

“I know, but what is the case _about_?” She insists, unashamedly peeking at his computer, her face hovering over his shoulder. “Maybe I can help you.” He snorts in response. “Holmes, do you think your brother put you through all this to rescue me just because I’m _pretty_?” She asks teasingly. “I’m _good_ , Holmes. Let me _surprise_ you.”

He stares well-disposed at her face for a few seconds. He could feel the heat emanating from her head and the smell of tooth paste in her breath. “Okay. Let’s see what you can do.” He straightens up on his chair. “Diana Henry, junior member of cabinet, had some _sensitive_ documents stolen from her apartment in Mayfair. She kept them on a safe and nobody else had the key,”

“And now she is being blackmailed?”

“No. No blackmail, no leaks, not even contact!”

“That is weird.” She stops to think a bit. “Any affairs?”

“Not hers,” he answers with a raise of his eyebrows. “Her husband’s, Simon Henry. He had been seeing an escort girl for the last two and a half years. A Ms Laura Navedo”

“Could _she_ have stolen the documents?”

“Maybe. She was found dead two days ago.”

“Well, there you go then,” she says, slapping him on the shoulder.

“It’s not so simple. Her _boyfriend_ confessed killing her.”

Alexia thinks for a while, staring at his computer. “Couldn’t Mr Henry have _paid_ him to do so?”

“He could, but the crime scene was a _bloodbath_. And the boyfriend was still _very_ distressed when the police found him. It didn’t seem staged.”

“Maybe Mr Henry knew the boyfriend was a violent person, so all he had to do was _hint_ that Ms Navedo was having an affair, and, Voilà, the blackmailing escort is gone,” she suggests, turning around to face him and leaning against his desk.

“Improbable, but possible,” Sherlock says, leaning back on his chair. “But so far, the documents haven’t reappeared. They’ve searched Ms Navedo’s entire apartment and found nothing. The jealous boyfriend had also denied ever seeing the papers. And, as Ms Henry has contacted me _after_ the murder took place, I believe that, if her husband _did_ have anything to do with his mistress’ murder, it didn’t help him recover the documents.”

“Good point,” she replies, staring vaguely at the wall over the fireplace. “Does Ms Henry know about her husband’s affair?”

“No,” he explains. “The police know, but as he was not a suspect on the murder case, they never bothered to contact him.”

“He has an alibi?”

“Dinner at Number 10 with half of the cabinet.”

“Good alibi.” She stands silently, contemplating all the information for a couple of seconds. “Why were you staring at the crime scene photos before?”

“You saw that?” He asks a bit impressed.

“You’re not the only one who _observes_ things, Holmes,” she teases him, returning to her earlier position at his shoulder.

“I was studying the blood splatter on the wall,” he explains as he shows her the photos. “See how the pattern is broken there? It’s not so obvious that the _nitwits_ at Scotland Yard would see it, but someone truly _observing_ won’t miss it.” He cannot help himself but smile.

“I see,” she examines the picture intently. “Was it a picture frame?”

“Possible. But why would someone steal a blood-stained picture?”

“Maybe it showed something compromising.”

“Okay, but compromising for whom?”

“Hum.” She paces the room, considering the information. Then, she plunges in Sherlock’s chair. “Ha… What if it was not a picture?” She asks with a bright look in her face.

“You’re in _my_ chair,” Sherlock chides.

“Look at the photos: She didn’t have _any_ pictures on her walls.” He looks at her stunned. He can’t believe she noticed that level of detail from one short look. “She had shoes, jackets, purses, even a belt hanging on the walls. But no pictures.”

“Well _done_ , Ms Gavin,” he congratulates her while clicking through the photos again to verify her theory.

“And they seem to be _all_ luxury brands,” she states, perched back at his shoulder. “See? Louboutin, Chanel… Is that Yves Saint Laurent?”

“So, you think whatever is missing is a luxury piece of garment?” Sherlock asks, a bit confused by all the names.

“Yes, basically,” she smiles at him. “We just have to figure out _what_ it was.”

Both of them stared at the computer. “These are, for some reason, MS Navedo’s _prized_ possessions. She was proud enough of owning these items to put them on display in her living room walls,” Sherlock expounds. “Because they are _expansive_? I _really_ can’t understand why someone would do that.”

“Because they are _exclusive_ ,” she says, humorously walking back to his chair. As she sits back down, her face brightens up: “It’s a Birkin Bag!” Sherlock shoots her a look of utter confusion. “It’s a _very_ exclusive purse made by Hermès. Some models have waiting lists of _three_ years. It’s one of the most coveted pieces of fashion accessories there is.”

“Okay. But why would someone steal a blood-stained purse?” He asks still incredulous.

“Exclusive items sell high on the black market.”

“Not blood-stained ones. Besides, the walls of that apartment are _full_ with exclusive items; some of which are _not_ stained. Why steal _this_ potential purse?”

Alexia leans back on Sherlock’s chair, almost lying down. “Maybe Simon Henry gave it to her,” she says standing up.

“I think she made enough money to _buy_ one herself,” he replies bad-tempered.

“It’s not about the price, Homes. It’s about exclusivity. I told you: some of the models take three years to get.” Dances around the room as if she is celebrating, causing him to smile. “How _long_ did you say they were having an affair?”

“Two and half years. But I still don’t see why she could not have purchased this bag herself,” he retorts, still smiling a bit.

“Don’t you get it, Holmes?” She walks towards him still dancing. “Men get easier access to these sort of exclusive products because sale-assistants believe they are ready to spend _more_ money than women would. So, they get offered the expensive things, the _real_ good stuff. It is simply _easier_ for men to buy those, _especially_ if you’re the husband of, say, a member of cabinet.”

At the sound of her last words, Sherlock jumps into action, typing frantically into the computer. Noticing this flurry of activity, Alexia quickly joins him, peering once again over his shoulder.

“What? What are you searching?” She asks excitedly, looking at photos of Diana Henry on the screen.

“What if Simon Henry didn’t _buy_ Ms Navedo a purse, but borrowed one instead?”

“From his _wife_?”

“Yes. It would explain why he would need to _steal_ it back,” he explains as they browse through photos until Alexia gasps:

“There! A white Himalaya Birkin. That is the most _expensive_ , most _difficult_ one to get. How much money does a member of cabinet make?”

“All the things you know!” Sherlock teases her, having to twist himself a little to be able to look at her face.

“I have a friend who knows a lot about this kind of thing,” she answers blushing. He laughs.

“Too bad that Ms Henry reported nothing was stolen from her apartment,” he clarifies, focusing once again on his computer.

“Maybe she didn’t notice it was missing. And that is why Mr Henry had to steal it back before she did,” Alexia completes, taking the book she left on the sofa back and heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed,” she says, stopping by the door. “Max is going to be here very early tomorrow.”

“What about the case?” He asks surprised.

“You finish it. I helped you _enough_ ,” she answers insolently. “Good night,” she says and closes the door. Just as Sherlock starts to silently laugh at her sassiness, the door opens again: “Thank you. It was fun.”

“Good night,” he calls after her.

 

 

A couple of days later, while Alexia and Max are stretching on the living room floor, Sherlock storms through the door:

“ _There_ you are!” He says, squatting next to the two. “About the Bag case, I talked to Ms Henry. She said nothing was stolen from her house, but that her husband took her bag to be shined at Hermès.”

“Aha,” she answers with difficulty while Max uses his body weight to stretch her leg over her head. “That sounds like a lame excuse. I bet _nobody_ at Hermès could recognise him.”

“Of course they didn’t. The question now is _what_ he did with the purse,” he continues, trying to talk around Fairbairn.

“Sorry, am I on the way here,” Max asks sardonically.

“No, you’re okay,” Sherlock answers, while Alexia snorts. “I wouldn’t take a blood-stained purse to Hermès either. I mean, people would ask questions.”

“You think he disposed of it somewhere?” Alexia asks, while Max moves on to push her other leg over her head.

“No. He could have _simply_ left it in Navedo’s apartment,” Sherlock answers. “I _do_ believe he took it to return it to his wife.”

“So, he _definitely_ needed someone to clean the purse.”

“But who would do that?” Sherlock asks.

“A saddler who counterfeits them?” Max interrupts the two, frustrated with Alexia’s lack of attention.

Both Alexia and Sherlock laugh at his intrusion, but actually take his advice. They spend the evening making a list of possible fraudsters, who Sherlock can contact in the morning. By the end of the next day, he comes back with a result:

“Solved the case, by the way,” he announces to Alexia while she is playing with Rosie.

“You found the saddler?”

“Found the saddler, who had the lost documents in his possession,” he explains.

“No!” She exclaims excited. “Simon Henry did not _know_ they were in the bag?”

“Nope,” he confirms smirking. “As Diana Henry was sure she had put the documents in the safe, he never even thought they could have been inside the purse.”

“Haha,” Alexia’s laugh radiates the whole room. “How did she take the news?”

“Not well. Called her divorce lawyer right in front of me,” he says, smiling himself.

“You two seem to have fun together,” John exclaims, coming in from the kitchen with tea.

“Well, it beats staring at the ceiling alone upstairs,” Alexia teases.

“She is more talkative than the skull,” Sherlock plays along. “But, on the other hand, some of _her_ ideas are a _bit_ more helpful.”

John snorts at their banter. Could it be that his friend is i _nfatuated_? Or this could be a ploy to get Alexia to trust him, like he did with Janine. Whatever Sherlock’s intentions were, John could not help noticing how Alexia had adapted well to life in Baker Street.Since she started moving around more she had been talking to and helping Mrs Hudson around the house as much as she could; she had been really helpful with Rosie, babysitting a couple of times, while he and Sherlock were on cases. Now, even Sherlock seemed to like her opinions and insights. They were still at each other’s throats at times because of something one of them would say, but it felt more like teasing than actual fighting. John was simply happy to be able to mock his friend because of his first real “girlfriend.”


	13. With a Smile

Another few weeks and Max’s combination of diet and exercise, together with John’s careful medical attention, bring an enormous improvement into Alexia’s health. Max points out that it’s time she starts rebuilding all the muscles she has lost, but for that, they will have to get out of the house. For her own safety, and for the safety of everybody in 221 Baker Street, she will have to assume a new identity. Max promises to arrange for a stylist to come to her, so Alexia doesn’t risk being recognised once she gets out on the streets. In the evening, when Alexia comes down to the living room – she has been spending her evenings with him, talking about his cases, both current and past, since they solved a case together – Sherlock asks her about the process of taking a new identity.

“The whole _new identity_ thing: I thought the secret service doesn’t do this kind of thing anymore,” he asks, as she makes herself comfortable on the sofa.

“The secret service doesn’t. _I_ have to,” she answers with a dim smile.

“Why _don’t_ they?” He asks, taking a place next to her on the sofa. “And why do _you_?”

“It is very hard to keep track of a new identity with all the digital fingerprinting nowadays. The service doesn’t think it’s worth the trouble,” she explains, crossing her legs and turning towards him.

“But _you_ still do it. Why?”

“Necessity. I would have been dead three times already, if I hadn’t taken a different name.”

“And how do you get through the whole digital fingerprint thing?” He asks fascinated.

“Preparation. I keep a couple of _ready-made_ identities just waiting to be used,” she says mimicking the beaming face _he_ normally does.

Sherlock stares at her in disbelief. _She is really a professional in camouflage_. “But how do you _do_ that?”

“I know the world’s best hacker!” She gloats.

“But it can’t be _that_ simple! Even if he could hack into all the places a person is registered nowadays, there is still Social Media. Clara Thaw’ had posts from _five years_ ago?”

“Oh, you want me to give up _all_ my trade secrets?” she asks him amused.

“What about fairness, sister? I’ve been telling you _my_ trade secrets every night,” he replies on a flirty tone.

“ _Sister_?” She retorts laughing. “What’s gotten into _you_?” Sherlock cannot help but laughing with her. “Okay, fair is fair. You have been entertaining me with your tales of Hat-man and Robin, _behind the scenes_ …” The joke makes Sherlock roar with laughter – a bit too much for Alexia’s taste. She continues, nevertheless. “It’s actually very simple: when I create a new persona, I take some photos in different situations and leave them in storage.”

“You created Clara Thaw’s profile’s _five_ years ago?” He asks staggered.

“No, I only _took_ the pictures five years ago. When I needed Clara Thaw’s identity, my hacker – who is a _she_ , by the way – made it look as if they were there for longer,” she explains grinning.

“So, you don’t create these personas when you need them; you store them.” She nods. “That is a _lot_ of planning! And very cunning,” he comments contemplatively. “Shows how one really should not trust _anything_ one sees online.”

“Those are words to live by.”

Both sit, each at one end of the sofa, and stare at the wall across from them.  Sherlock continued:

“How many _identities_ do have ready?”

“I have three left. Once Max gives me the okay, I better create some new ones,” she completes casually.

“I’m sorry, Ms Gavin. I don’t mean to offend you, but I don’t understand how it is possible for a person to live their live lying and still claim to be trustworthy…” He asks a bit disheartened.

“This is not my _life_ ; it’s just part of my job,” she explains calmly. “Not for a second I see myself as the personas I adopt. It’s still _me_ underneath.”

“Isn’t this a terrible way of living?” Sherlock asks looking at her intently. “I can imagine it doesn’t allow you to do things other people would consider _normal,_ like having friends, going on dates; that sort of thing.”

“Indeed, my life is nothing like what others might consider _normal_ ,” she answers with a pinch of sadness in her voice. “But so isn’t yours and you still found friends, that sort of thing, didn’t you?”

He nods. “But don’t you ever consider quitting this life? Taking one last identity and starting anew?

“Yes, of course I do. It’s especially difficult to go on when you lose some of the few friends you’ve made,” she tells him in a very emotional tone.

“Why go on then?”

“Because I’m good at it, Holmes,” she says, wiping away a single tear from her face. “ _You_ could have been a scientist, a doctor, but you _chose_ to be a detective because you’re good at it, right?” He nods once more. “I could simply leave and start over somewhere else: get married, have kids, a dog, keep bees. Who knows?” She ponders smiling. “But I am _good_ at what I do and I am _proud_ of doing it.”

The two sit in silence for a couple of minutes again before Alexia stands up and heads to the door.

“Ms Gavin,” Sherlock calls after her. “I’m sorry this evening wasn’t very entertaining.”

“It’s okay,” she answers with a faint smile. “I’m sorry I got so emotional,” she adds, closing the door and climbing up the stairs. She heads straight to bed, feeling exhausted, but lays awake most of the night; her conversation with Sherlock bobbling through her mind most of the time.

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t see much of Ms Gavin most of the next day. As promised, Fairbairn brings the stylist early, but they remain in the upstairs room most of the morning. He goes out on a case and only comes back in the evening, when everyone is already gone and the house is quiet. This evning, Ms Gavin does not come down to the living room. As a matter of fact, a few days pass and she keeps her distance from him. She intensifies her training with Fairbairn, going out with him every day to either jog on the park or swim on a public swim pool. For some reason he can’t quite explain, Sherlock starts resenting him for this.

One morning, Sherlock gets up to find Fairbairn and Ms Gavin waiting for him in the living room. The physiotherapist has been called to work on a very urgent case and will have to limit his care of Alexia for a few days. As he cannot accompany her to the swim pool in the afternoon, he asks Sherlock to take her and make sure she does not over exercise herself. Sherlock is a bit hesitant: his relationship with Alexia has cooled a bit since their last nightly chat. He is not very excited about sitting by the pool for an hour, not being able to do any work. Against all his better reasoning, he decides to go with her.

The walk to the pool is awkward. Neither of them seems to find the right words to start a conversation until Sherlock notices how Ms Gavin’s new hair cut seems to be bothering her.

“Not happy with the new look yet?” He asks briskly.

“Oh! No,” she answers with a start. “It’s just these bangs. I don’t _really_ like them,” she explains, running her hand rapidly through her hair a couple of times.

“I guess it takes some time to get used to the _physical_ part of a new persona.”

“I shouldn’t be complaining. Once I had to spend a year wearing prostatic teeth,” she smiles weakly. “I just don’t like the way I look with _bangs_. Feels stupid, that’s all.”

“Well, you do look very different than before. So, I guess in the matter of safety, it is a good thing,” he says trying to maintain a relaxed manner. “I’m not an expert in the matter of appearances, but I find it looks good. It’s not worse than before.”

“Wow! Was that an attempt at a compliment?” Alexia answers laughing. “Thanks!”

As they reach the pool, she notices how tense Sherlock has gotten and wonders if his discomfort has anything to do with his issues with water, especially the connection between swim pools and Moriarty.

“You still give him _way_ too much power over you,” she announces, throwing her things at the nearest stands.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock looks at her, both surprised and annoyed.

“Moriarty.” She lets the name sink in.

“What do you mean? Moriarty is _dead_!” He answers, turning a shade paler.

“And yet, you feel _very_ uncomfortable to be inside a place that reminds you, even a little bit of him.” Sherlock remains silent, staring at the swim pool. “Moriarty is, as you just said, dead. So, don’t let the bad experiences you had because of him live on in your head. It only gives him power over you.” Alexia takes off her tracksuit and places it on the stands, next to her bag. After a few seconds of silence, she continues: “Thank you for bringing me here today. It must have taken a _lot_ of strength,” she says turning around and walking away.

“It’s not as easy as _that_ ,” he calls after her as she dives into the deep side of the pool. He sits down on the stands, sulking and desperately looking for other reasons for his uneasiness.

When she reaches the middle of the lap, she suddenly stops, lifts her head off the water looking for him and shouts: “It’s not _him_. Is it?” She dives closer to the edge, crossing a couple of lanes. “It’s not _Moriaty_ that’s making you unconfutable. It’s _her_!” Taking a deep breath, she lifts her body out of the pool. Sitting, dripping, next to him, she tells him kindly: “Your sister caused you a lot of trouble over the years. And I’m sorry if bringing me here stirred some of the memories that you might have been trying to keep quiet,” she says hugging her own legs, staring at the pool. “But the premise is still the same: the more you let past _bother_ you, the more power it acquires.” Sherlock slightly nods. They sit in silence for a minute or so until she breaks it. “So, I’m gonna go take a shower and we can get out of here,” she says getting up. “You can wait for me outside, if you want,” she finishes, touching his shoulder slightly with a smile.


	14. I Know What I’m Doing

When she gets out to the changing room, he is waiting for her in the corridor. They acknowledge each other, a bit uncomfortable, and walk together out of the building. Outside, Sherlock hails for a cab, but Alexia stops him:

“Can we walk? That way at least I would have worked out a bit?” He nods.

They start walking, side by side, in silence, until Sherlock notices: “This is not the way to Baker Street!”

“Come along, Homes. I want to take you somewhere as way to say thanks,” she says, putting her hand on his back, trying to make him move along.

“Mr Fairbairn said I was supposed to take you directly home.”

“Since when do you do exactly as you’re told?” She says, walking ahead of him. “And what Max doesn’t _know_ , doesn’t hurt him!”

Sherlock thinks for a second and shouts, starting to follow Alexia: “Where _exactly_ are you taking me?

She stops on her tracks, about fifteen feet ahead of him, and turns on the pavement to face a storefront. “Here!” She opens her arms, showing, with a little bow, a cake shop.

“Are you even _allowed_ to eat cake?” Sherlock asks catching up with her.

Striding fast, she opens the door to the shop without looking back at Sherlock.

“Come on, Holmes!” She sounds happy as a little kid. Once inside, she shouts, in a Texan drawl accent: “Ah sure hope Ah’ll be fahndin’ some good ole cheesecake in these here regions…”

The woman behind the counter screams, almost dropping the plate she is caring. “You’re alive!” She runs to hug Alexia. Sherlock immediately recognises her as Amy Aldwin, the dishevelled woman who led him and John into Ms Gavin’s apartment.

“Of course I’m alive, honey!” Alexia answers, both of them with tears in their eyes. “You think I would die for real and not tell you?” She explains with a smile. “I hope you didn’t get _too_ drunk because of me!” She adds with a smirk, making the other laugh. The two prolong the embrace, while Sherlock stands, astonished, at the door watching.

“I’ve heard you were _poisoned_ or something,” Ms Aldwin wonders.

“Oh. That was nothing. Just some vengeful old _friends_?” Alexia explains. “But I had a _lot_ of help to get over it.” The two hug again, both with tears in their eyes: “Do you really think I would die and not tell you?” Alexia asks, caressing Amy’s hair. At this, she turns to Sherlock to present him: “Amy, this is...”

“Sherlock Holmes.” Amy moves to shake his hand. “I know him,” looking intently at the detective. “Lady Smallwood introduced us while you were _gone_.”

“Ms Aldwin’s help was _invaluable_ to our finding you, Ms Gavin,” Sherlock explains, shaking her hand. She looks very different than the last time he saw her: clean clothes and make up, despite the fact she has been clearly working in the kitchen. Sherlock studies her swiftly: _American by the accent, probably from the west coast; the hunching of her back indicates working with computers, programmer probably; seems to know Alexia pretty well. She is not as fit as Alexia. And Alexia is not exactly fit right now._

“Is he as good as they say?” Amy asks, her eyes examining him intently.

“Even _better_ ,” Alexia answers with a morsel of pride in her voice.

“Should I ask him to _deduce_ me?” Amy asks jokingly.

“He probably _already_ did,” Alexia answers, pushing Sherlock towards a table.

“ _Right_! You two sit down. I’ll go get some cake.” Amy turns around, smiling happily.

Sherlock and Alexia sit on a booth by the kitchen door, far away from the window. When Amy comes back with two pieces of cheesecake and some tea, she takes a sit next to Alexia and the two loose themselves in conversation about the month they spent apart, while Sherlock enjoys the cake and observes. They seem to know and trust each other for a very long time. He will need to ask Alexia more about Amy when they get back to Baker Street. The two women spend the whole afternoon talking, occasionally interrupting to serve customers. Until, in the early evening, Alexia signals she and Sherlock have to go.

“Nooo!” Amy protests. “I thought I’ve lost you. I’m not letting you go so easily,” she says hugging her friend.

“Amy, I have to. Max doesn’t even know I’m here. And he will be really mad if I’m still in bed when he gets to Baker Street tomorrow morning,” Alexia clarifies.

“Oh, _Max_ is taking care of you?” Amy asks, in a tone Sherlock was getting used to hear when Mr Fairbairn was involved. “Then you’re in trouble just for _being_ here,” she completes standing up and walking to the kitchen. “Wait up!” When she comes back, she is carrying a whole cheesecake, packed to go: “For your _saviours_!” She says, winking at Sherlock.

 

 

On the way back to Baker Street, Sherlock takes the opportunity to ask Alexia about Amy:

“We met in the service, but she got out sometime ago,” she explains.

“Can you just _quit_ the service like that?” he asks startled.

“You can if you are Amy!” She answers, smiling, to what Sherlock looks even more amazed. “Well, she is the _best_ in her field. So she never got _completely_ out. She still does some work for them, from time to time.”

“Like a _freelance_ agent?” He asks, thinking of Mary.

“Yes, but not an agent _per se_.” She tries to explain, but has difficulties. “I guess that was how you met her while working on my case.”

“She is a hacker, right?” Sherlock helps her.

“I don’t know if I am allowed to tell you that.”

“You don’ have to. I’ve already _deduced_ it,” he explains drily. “She is your _world’s best hacker_.”

“Well, yes,” she takes a pause. “And she _is_ the best. So, they allowed her to stop, as long as she does some work when necessary.”

“I see.” They walk for a bit in silence until he starts again: “How did you two meet, if she wasn’t an agent like you?”

“Oh, we met on training. We joined pretty much together…”

“But she seems to be more of friend than a colleague…?”

“We sort of always worked together; she helping on the background.” She stops to consider a bit, taking a deep breath. “She was my partner in this case in America. We became _very_ good friends,” she continued walking. “She is my best friend. And, as I’ve already told you, the service doesn’t allow you many friends.”

Sherlock thinks for a couple of steps before continuing: “But you said she was not an agent like you.” He is surprised again. “How come you were teamed up?”

“I can’t talk about that case. It’s _still_ open.” She sounded worried. “It involved a lot a cyber, uhm, for lack of a better word, _spying_.”

“Okay. And why did she quit?”

“She was tired of the life: the risks, the lack of friendships. She wanted a _normal_ life.” She becomes thoughtful, as if some memory was hurting her. “One day she discovered she _could_ step out and she did,” she completes, emotional.

“Does she have a _normal_ life now? I mean  Husband, kids, _bees_?” He asks with a wink.

“No,” she answers smiling. “I mean, her life is as normal as dealing with your brother will _allow_ it to be. But she does not even have a boyfriend, as far as _I_ know.”

He smiles back at her. “And you stayed.” He adds in a caring tone. She just nods in agreement. “But why is she _here_ , not in America? She _is_ American.”

“Yes, but her family moved in here when she was in her teens. She sort of grew up here.” At this point, they arrived at 221B, Baker Street. Alexia held Sherlock back as he moves to open the door: “Look, I know I can trust you; you won’t tell all this to anyone… But… Amy is my _best_ friend, she is my _family_. And I would do _anything_ to keep her safe.” She holds his arm and stares solemnly into his eyes: “I need to be _sure_ her secret is safe with you?”

“Ms Gavin,” he says, looking earnest, “as long as you are honest, your secrets are safe with me. But,” he stops her going inside the house, “Are you sure _you_ are not putting _her_ in harm’s way by visiting? I mean, if you are such good friends, won’t your enemies keep an eye on her?”

“Don’t worry about that, Holmes.” She answers, self-assured. “As I said, Amy always worked on the back ground. She was never as _exposed_ as I was,” she explains, stepping into the house and rushing upstairs. “I know what I’m doing.”


	15. Another Sleepless Night

When Sherlock reaches his flat, Alexia is making a racket in his kitchen. Before he can hang his coat, she hurries pass him, heading down stairs.

“Be right back!” She explains, with her coat still on, carrying a small plate with a slice of cake and little card.

Standing by the door to his living room, Sherlock can hear Alexia talk to Mrs Hudson. She thanks the landlady for all her help and kindness, to what Mrs Hudson responds by gushing about how Alexia was a very pleasing improvement from the boys. Instead of making him feel irked, as Mrs Hudson’s exaggerated and ill-timed demonstrations of affection normally did, the conversation between the two women make him feel pleased. He goes to his computer desk with a smile.

After half an hour of chatter, Alexia opens the door to the living room smiling. As she hangs her coat, Sherlock stands up in a very ceremonious manner.

“Ms Gavin!” He exclaims.

“Holmes!” She answers calmly.

“I would like to thank you for what you did today.”

“But _I_ am the one who needs to say thanks,” she corrects him, unable to move from surprise and curiosity. “That is what the cake was for,” she adds with a kind smile.

“I don’t mean that,” he interjects, slowly pacing towards her. “I meant what you told me today.” His voice is gentle, almost sultry. “For the first time since I met you, I have the feeling I talked to the _real_ you, not one of you _conceived_ personas.”

Alexia stands by the door with her coat in her hands, not knowing how to react. Although Sherlock’s attitude towards her constantly shifted from accommodating to at least unfriendly, this felt honest. She could not recognise his intentions with this speech. Most important, all of a sudden she was very aware of his proximity to her and it made her anxious. She decides to try divert his attention.

“Come on, Holmes. I’m the one who needs to say thanks here,” she says moving past him away from the door. “Not _only_ for going with me to the swim pool, but for everything else as well.” She lifts her eyes to check his reaction; he stands where he was. “On my line of business, you don’t meet many people you can really trust. Or who actually trust _you_ , as a matter of fact. But you not only saved me _twice_ , you opened your home to me.” Their eyes meet and both fall still for some seconds. Her plan seems to be working. Then Alexia breaks the silence: “I just wanted you to know how _thankful_ I am for all you’ve done. And that you can count on me, for anything you need.” She starts fumbling the papers on his desk, feeling a bit more comfortable. “Even more than before.”

The last words go through Sherlock’s mind like lightning and he keeps his eyes on her, like a hawk.

“What did you just say?” He asks, waking towards her.

Immediately noticing her slip, Alexia tries to dissimulate: “That I _trust_ you. And that you can count on me.”

“No! No, that’s not _it_. What you _just_ said. The words you _just_ said,” he starts questioning, cornering her like a predator on the hunt.

“That _is_ what I said…” She tries to act indignant, make him feel bad about his reaction. “I was trying to be _nice_ to you and now you’re interrogating me again, as if I’m a murder suspect!”

“Don’t try to cover up, Gavin. What did you just say?” He holds her wrists so she cannot go away.

“Come one, Holmes!” She says, changing her tactics. “As if _you_ didn’t know,” she adds, staring him in the eyes. “If you want something from me, ask the _right_ questions,” she looks him daringly.

He locks eyes with her for an instant, still holding her wrist. His mind racing with all the information he is trying to organise. Than he turns around abruptly and, letting go of her, starts pacing up and down the room, in interrogation mode: “You said, _‘Even more than before.’_ But we’ve only met in that brothel in Bremerhaven. So, what do you mean by _before_?”

By now, Alexia has come up with a new strategy: “I’ve been working for your brother for _years_ now. I’ve cleaned up after you in numerous occasions.” She walks towards him, defiant. “Do you really think the day you rescued me was the _first_ time I’ve heard of you?” Sherlock fixate her, noticing his mistake. “You might not know _me_ , Sherlock Holmes, but I know you for a lot longer than you think,” she completes, moving away towards the kitchen.

Sherlock fells duped. He knows this was not what she meant with what she said before, but he could not find a way to contest her point. His brother _did_ use the intelligence services for his personal matter, especially to deal with family problems. _Often_. Therefore, Alexia probably had been working a lot closer to him than he could have cared to figure out. If this was the truth, only Mycroft could say, but he probably wouldn’t. The noises coming from the kitchen bring Sherlock back from his reflections and he decided on a different approach:

“Alexia, that is _exactly_ the problem,” he says, marching towards the kitchen. “You know a lot _more_ about me than I know about you. It’s not _fair_.”

She looks up from the cake she was cutting to stare at him, stunned by his calling her by her first name for the first time. “It is my _job_ to know more about people than they know about me. I’m with the _bloody_ secret service. Besides,” she continues, going back to cutting cake. “Your _whole_ life is online. You have a blog, you’re on Twitter. Your _adventures_ were covered by _all_ the British papers, as well as _some_ American ones. Even if I _didn’t_ work for you brother, I would still know more about you than you know about me.”

“Just because you _work_ for Mycroft, doesn’t mean you have to _lie_ to me like he does,” he says, standing across the table from her.

She fixates his eyes: “I am not lying. Trust me. It’s not _my_ secret to tell.”

He returns her stare: “I trust you. But I need to know.”

“If I am _ever_ allowed to, I _will_ tell you. I promise,” she answers, barely blinking. Then, still holding his gaze, she pushes a plate with a piece of cheesecake across the table towards him: “An apology.”

Sherlock looks at the cake, than back at Alexia. Taking the plate in one hand, he walks around the table and stops in front of her, so close she needs to tilt her head up to look him in the eyes: “You know what Mycroft’s lies have caused to me and my family. Don’t lie to me, Alexia. Just don’t,” he says and turns around, walking towards his bedroom with the plate in his hand.

Alexia is only able to breathe again once she hears the door closing. She needs to lean against the table for support. She feels rattled and disoriented. Her heart is beating fast and her hands are shaking, but she doesn’t know why. She is not afraid of Sherlock, but his presence, his proximity had a strange effect on her. With difficulty, she puts the rest of the cake inside the fridge and heads upstairs for what will certainly be another sleepless night.


	16. The Very Best at It

John wakes up with the sound of a text message. Begrudgingly, he reaches for his phone on the bedside table. Four o’clock in the morning. The message from Sherlock reads:

_*John. Need your opinion on a matter. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.*_

Knowing his friend, he is sure he meant right now, but as there are no other messages or phone calls, he figures there is no big emergency and decides to respond at a more reasonable hour, going back to sleep. He still arrives with Rosie in Baker Street relatively early, even before Mrs Hudson has gotten out of bed. When he enters the living room, Sherlock is already sitting on his chair, a cup of tea in his hand.

“You took your time,” the detective comments ironically.

“Sherlock, I have a child. I can’t simply pick her up and leave in the middle of the night,” John says, settling Rosie on the floor with her toys. “Or even worse, leave her there.” Sherlock frowns. “Did you sleep at all or were you waiting here all this time?” John continues, ignoring his friend’s bad temper.

“As you only turned up now, that fact is _irrelevant_ ,” Sherlock answers, setting the tea cup on the side table sullenly.

“Okay, Sherlock. What is _so_ important that makes you need to talk to me _so_ early?” John asks, taking his place on his own chair.

“We need to discuss the secret agent upstairs,” Sherlock says on a quiet, secretive voice.

“What is the problem with Alexia now?”

“I came up with a hypothesis about her and I wanted to run it by you.”

“And you needed to do it at four in the morning?” John asks; his patience already running short.

Sherlock ignores his jab and proceeds to explain his theory. “Ms Gavin has told me that she took part on an 18 months training _boot camp_ (her words, not mine) eight years ago, provided by an outsider group, working for the secret intelligence service.”

“So?”

“The _timing_ of this got me thinking,” he answers, pouring some tea for John and himself. “That was about the same time Mary’s freelance group A.G.R.A. started working for the British government.” John twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “I wonder if those two facts are somehow related.”

“You think Alexia knew Mary?” Sherlock nods. “What makes you think so?”

Sherlock sighs. “I don’t like this at all, but I have to admit that it is not based on actual _facts_. It’s just that, time wise, it fits.”

“So, you’re basing your theory on an _intuition_?”

Sherlock frowns again, starts to protests and falls silent, frowning. After thinking for a few seconds, he continues: “It was something she said last night: that I could trust her _even more than before_.” He stops to reflect on the words once again. “Isn’t it a strange thing to say, considering we met about a month ago?”

“Sure, but what does _that_ have to do with Mary?” John points out, putting his tea cup back on the table. “Look, she worked for Mycroft for many years, right?” Sherlock nods. “Maybe he has made her work on so many of _your_ cases that she feels she has been helping you long before _you_ actually _met_ her.”

“Possibly. She did _imply_ she worked on _Lazarus_ ,” he explains offering John biscuits. “And on Bond Air,” he adds a bit abject.

Before John can make any other comment, Alexia rushes through the door. In a burst of good mood, she greets both John and Rosie heartily, sincerely happy to see them. After playing a while with Rosie on the floor, she looks up at Sherlock absent-minded. Suddenly, she jumps up, runs to the kitchen and starts clattering around, banging plates, until she comes back carrying two pieces of cake.

“This is my _thanks giving_ cake,” she says giving John one of the plates. “You saved my live and you’ve been like a big brother, taking very good care of me ever since. This is my way of showing you how thankful I am.”

The doctor doesn’t even try to contain his emotions. Standing up with the plate in one hand, he hugs her:

“Oh, Alex, you didn’t have to. I was only doing my job.”

“Saving my life might have been your job, but treating me with so much affection wasn’t,” she corrects him with a very heartfelt hug. “It shows what a _wonderful_ man you are, John.”

John blushes, especially when she gives him a smack on the cheek. Even more when he notices Sherlock’s scowl facing them.

“Is the other one for Sherlock?” he asks, letting go of her embrace.

“No, he’s had his last night,” she says, looking a bit cross at him. “This is for Rosie, if she is allowed, of course.”

She gives the little girl the cake and the three of them spend the morning joking and playing around. After sitting sulking in his chair for almost one hour, Sherlock decides to joins them, first just commenting on some jokes, but then really taking part in the games they are playing on the floor. John notices that his friend is acting differently towards their guest: He seems kinder, more interested in her, actively seeking her proximity. John wonders if this was part of his strategy to discover her secrets, or if there was something more to it. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working, as Alexia seems to be falling for it. She is not only accepting his attentions, she seems to be reciprocating them. John smiles: _Sherlock could do worse_.

 

 

In the afternoon, after Mrs Hudson joins them for lunch out, they all walk leisurely back to 221, where John takes Rosie up to his former room for a nap. As Sherlock and Alexia settle down in the living room – he on his computer, she with a book on the sofa – Max arrives, looking aggravated. Alexia greets him with her usual enthusiasm, but he seems to be too cross to return it.

“Don’t come with pleasantries today, Alex. I’m here in very serious matters,” he says standing in front of her. “Surveillance has warned me that chatter has been intercepted last night about Mr Holmes here visiting Amy’s cake shop in company of an unknown woman. Was that _you_ , lass?”

“Yes, it was me,” she says, practically hiding behind the book she was reading as she recognises the anger in his voice.

“Why did you do that?” Max asks in a thunderous voice. “We’ve been working so hard to keep you safe and you go and put it all at risk. You know you’re putting Amy in danger by doing such a thing?”

As John joins them, Sherlock stands from his desk. “As you just pointed out yourself, Mr Fairbairn, the information from chatter referred to me and an _unknown_ woman. They didn’t seem to have recognised Alexia. So, for all they know, she could be my business partner, a friend,” he explains, causing John to snort a little. “Or even a girlfriend,” Sherlock adds, making John laugh so loudly that even Alexia giggles.

Sherlock’s argument only calms Max a little. “Still, there are a lot of people working to protect you here and you go around town frolicking,” Max blames her, so menacing that Sherlock moves to stand in front of him, protecting Alexia.

“Max, that is not fair. I’ve been locked in this house for over a month,” she says, standing up. “I’ve being doing everything _everyone_ has told me to: ate the things you gave; did my exercises; everything,” she explains walking decidedly past Sherlock and standing between him and Max. “I needed a break.”

“If you wanted cake, you should have asked me, and I would have brought you some,” he interjects, a bit calmer, but still agitated.

“It’s not just _cake_. I missed my _friend_ ,” she explains in a begging voice. “Amy and you are my two _oldest_ friends and I haven’t seen her since before the kidnap. She still thought I was _dead_ , Max.”

This finally disarms him and he hugs Alexia so swiftly, that Sherlock has to contain himself not to jump in her defence.

“Oh, lass… I’m sorry I got mad. I was so worried about your safety that I _forgot_ to worry about your well-being,” Max justifies, caressing Alexia’s hair. Both Sherlock and John roll their eyes at his words. “But if you are feeling lonely here, do you want to be transferred to a safe house?”

“No!” Alexia exclaims, gently pushing Max away. “I’m _really_ happy here, Max,” she adds, looking around at Sherlock and John. “I feel at home here like I haven’t felt for a long time. I have an older brother, who takes really good care of me,” she says smiling at John. “A surrogate mother, for the first time in my life,” she says pointing at the door. “And there is Holmes,” she looks at him and loses her train of thought. “I don’t know what Holmes _is_. He _picks_ on me a lot, but at least he is entertaining,” she adds, making everyone but Sherlock laugh. “What I mean is, he has been doing a very good job protecting me. So far, no one has even tried to hurt _me_ or anyone around me.

“Alright, lass, but next time you want to meet Amy, you let me know and I’ll take you there.”

“Excuse me, Mr Fairbairn, but wouldn’t that be _more_ dangerous than her going with me?” Sherlock interrupts him. “If you and Ms Aldwin are, as Ms Gavin just put it, her _oldest_ friends, wouldn’t _your_ appearance at Ms Aldwin’s shop in company of an unknown woman draw much _more_ attention than _my_ appearance there?” He explains to everyone’s astonishment.

“He has a point,” John intervenes, after quietly listening to the whole conversation.

“Look, Max. I’m sorry if I endangered the _whole_ operation last night. I wanted to see Amy and I thought that her cake was a nice way to say thanks to these guys. It won’t happen again,” she says, slouching back to the sofa.

“Come on, Alex,” John interjects. “It doesn’t have to be like this. You’re not a _prisoner_ here. I’m pretty sure we can figure something out,” he says, sitting next to her.

“Yeah. You tell me in advance and I’ll organise things so that one of the two can take you to Amy. Would that be okay?” Max asks patronizingly.

“Can I get a phone as well?” She asks, perking up. “I think if I could _talk_ to Amy, I wouldn’t need to go there so often.”

“Maybe I arrange for an encrypted one…”

Alexia smiles widely and jumps from the sofa into Max’s arms. “Thank you, lad! You’re the best!” She exclaims, covering his face with kisses. “I think you deserve the last piece of cheese cake,” she says running off to the kitchen.

“Okay, hen, but you have one _very_ hard workout section is coming her way as punishment,” Max jokes.

“You know she _completely_ fooled you right there, right?” Sherlock asks Max once she is out of earshot.

“Oh, of _course_ I know,” Max answers smiling. “She does that all the time. She has this way of _charming_ herself out of trouble every time. It’s her specialty, and she is the very best at it.”


	17. Break the Rules a Little Bit

The taxi stops in front of Speedy’s and Alexia jumps out of it. She has been working out with Max in a small gym in Kensington, but he is still working on another case and has to move around town in a hurry, so they have been taking cab rides instead of jogging. The couple of minutes sitting in the warm car helps her recover her breath after the extra hard training the physiotherapist has put her through, but she is still panting when she opens the door to 221B.

“Mr Holmes,” surprised, she greets her boss, who is sitting in the living roomwith his brother. “I wasn’t expecting _you_ here.”

“I’m sorry I failed to share my _schedule_ with you, Ms Gavin,” Mycroft says in his typical sardonic manner. Standing up, he moves to leave, completely disregarding the blushing woman by the door. “Sherlock, you have _all_ the information _I_ have. Let me know once you discover something.” Turning silently, he leaves, still ignoring Alexia, who stands petrified on the same spot.

Sherlock stares at her in disbelief. He has never seen her react like this. “Is anything wrong, Ms Gavin?”

She looks at him with bright, scared eyes: “I was not expecting _him_ here.” She still can’t move.

“He is my _brother_ ,” he says with a slight smile. “We don’t _always_ see eye to eye, but it’s considered _normal_ that he visits.”

“Right. Of course,” she says, finally staggering out of her coat. “ _That_ makes sense.”

“Why does it _shock_ you so much that he is here, then?” He asks, entertained by her reaction.

“Oh, it’s nothing. He just caught me by surprise. That’s all,” she answers, walking towards the kitchen. “What did he want?” She asks in a cheerful voice, trying to disguise her edginess.

“To visit his brother,” Sherlock answers, jumping from his chair to follow her to the kitchen. “What do you _think_ he could be here for?”

“ _Exactly_ for that,” she says, drinking water, still a bit pale.

“That was not a normal reaction, even for you.” He notes, standing right in front of her, aware that the difference in their heights is imposing. “Come on, _Gavin_ ,” he adds in a playful tone.

She looks up to his smiling face. “You’re enjoying this _way_ too much, Holmes.” His smile broadens as he advances towards her. She stands her ground. “Did Mr Holmes bring you a case?” She tries to deflect, actually enjoying their little dispute.

“Tell me what you thought Mycroft was doing here,” Sherlock demands, moving even closer.

“Tell me what your brother wanted,” she answers, making herself look bigger; her heart pounding, not with fear, but with excitement.

They stand so close that both can feel each other’s breath; looking at each other’s eyes, waiting to see who will blink first. The tension is cut by John, clearing his throat by the door:

“Am I _interrupting_ something?”

Sherlock leans closer to Alexia, whispering on her ear: “This is not over.” She blushes deeply. “No, just asking Ms Gavin for some information,” he adds, turning around and leading the doctor out of the kitchen.

Alexia stands, anew petrified, on the spot. Once they are both out of sight, she takes a deep breath, holding on to the kitchen table for support. When her legs are fully functional gain, she dashes upstairs. She carefully closes the door behind her, searching her bag for the phone she got from Max. She dials franticly, while sitting on floor, blocking the door with her back.

“Amy, it’s me.” On the other side, Amy is about to make a big deal about her call, but Alexia stops her. “Please, don’t make a fuss about this. Just pretend this is a regular call from a friend.”

“Okay, honey, as a matter of fact, you _are_ my friend. But I’m glad you got a phone, so now we can talk,” Amy answers, curbing her eagerness. “What’s up?”

“Can you find out what they did to my things after they faked my death?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I kept some things I found important; the rest was donated,” Amy answers in a embarrassed tone. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault. I guess they wanted to be thorough.”

“Why do you ask? Do you need anything?”

“Yeah, to take my life back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think it’s time I leave Baker Street and figure out what to do with my life.”

“Sure, at some point you will have to do that. But did anything happen? Max told me you were quite happy there.”

“Nothing happened. I just had a very weird situation with Holmes just now.”

“Is he bothering you?” Amy asks, settling down on a table in her closed store.

“No. It was just a normal situation, but I reacted so badly that everything _almost_ completely derailed.”

“What the _hell_ happened?”

“Mr Holmes was here when I got home from my workout with Max and I _totally_ froze.”

“You mean, Mycroft?”

“Yes, Amy, your former boss.”

“Why would you freeze because of _him_?”

“I was afraid he would tell Sherlock the _real_ reason why I was working as Lady Smallwood’s secretary.” Amy stays silent for a few seconds. “Amy? Still there?”

“Yes, I was just wondering. What would be the problem if he _would_ tell?”

“What?”

“Why would that be such a _horrible_ thing if Sherlock and John found out _why_ you…”

“Because I don’t know how they would react,” Alexia interrupts her.

“Come on. In the beginning, when we just started, I can understand if they would react badly. But _now_? They got to _know_ you better since you’ve been spending so much the time there. I guess they even trust you now.”

“I’m not so sure they _do_ , Amy. Besides, we promised.”

“Yeah, back _then_. But _now_ , everything is different.” Both of them stay silent for a few seconds, until Amy continues. “So, you want to leave because you’re afraid they will find out. But why _now_? You’ve been there for over a month.”

“Well, there was something else,” Alexia answers uncomfortably. “Holmes noticed my reaction to his brother and was putting pressure on me to tell him the reason.”

“Was he _nasty_ to you?”

“No, not _exactly_.”

“What did he do?”

“He kinda _leaned_ in on me, trying to make me tell him.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Amy shouts. “Are you telling me he _harassed_ you?”

“No! Amy! This is _Sherlock Holmes_ we are talking about,” Alexia reminds her.

“Right, the _virgin_ ,” she adds, laughing.

“I’ve never really _cared_ for that nickname.” Alexia scolds her. “Besides, it was more like an intimidation manoeuvre.”

“Okay, but what happened?” Amy asks impatient.

“Well, I tried to play along, trying _not_ to be intimidated, but all the time my hearts was pounding and my legs felt like cooked noodle,” Alexia explains with a voice full with anguish.

“Well, seems like you _were_ intimidated, dear.”

“But this has happened before.” Alexia’s voice is full of panic now.

“What? When?”

“Whenever he gets close to me.”

“You mean, you react like that _every time_ he enters the room?”

“No, of course not. Only when he gets closer or touches me.”

“Oh, sounds like you’re _crushing_ on him, honey!”

“NO!” Alexia cries. “Of _course_ I’m not.”

“No, you’re _not_ ,” Amy agrees with her. “Because you’ve _always_ crushed on him.”

“Are you _insane_?”

“Since the _first time_ Mr Holmes assigned us to his surveillance.”

“I did _not_ , Amy.”

“You even _defended_ him after he totally spoiled Bond Air!”

“Come on, Amy!”

“Oh, if Mr Holmes had told him what was going on…” Amy mimicked her, laughing.

“Shut up, Amy.” Alexia shouts, ending the call and throwing the phone on her bed. Immediately, the device starts ringing. “Are you going to _help_ me or are you going to make _fun_ of me?”

“Hopefully both,” Amy answers, still laughing. “I’ll see what I can do about the apartment. In the meantime, take _long_ baths,” she says, hanging up.

 

_______________

Sherlock pushes John out of the kitchen and into his chair, motioning that he remain silent until they hear Alexia rushing upstairs. He then proceeds to sit down on his own chair, not even trying to hide his smug smile.

“What the _hell_ was going on in there, Sherlock?”

“As I said, I was asking Ms Gavin for information. That’s all.”

“Information about _what_ exactly, because it looked a lot more like you were about to _kiss_ her,” John asks, sounding protective.

“John, it’s just a ruse I’m using to get her to tell me why she left an open case to work as a secretary.”

“It didn’t look like a ruse from where _I_ was standing.”

“Good. That means it’s working.”

“Sherlock,” John grunts suspicious. “What _are_ you doing?”

“I’ve noticed that Ms Gavin has been reacting differently to my proximity. So, in the evening of the cake incident, I took her pulse. It was _elevated_ ,” he says self-assuredly. “And her pupils were dilated.”

“And that had _nothing_ to do with the way you’re always tormenting her?”

Sherlock stops and stares at him viciously. “No! You _saw_ how she reacted just now. I don’t think she feels _tormented_. I think she takes pleasure on it. So, I will use it in my favour.”

“Oh, you’re _not_ doing to her what you did to Janine.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not _nice_. It’s not _fair_. And most importantly, unlike Janine, Alexia knows how to _kill_ you.”

“Bah humbug!” Sherlock interjects. “She won’t do _that_. I’m her boss’ brother.”

“And you think _fooling_ her will get you what you want?”

“Yes, it worked with Janine.”

“Don’t you think it would be _easier_ just to gain her trust?”

“That is what I’m doing.”

“By _lying_ to her?”

Sherlock remains silent for a feel second. “John, don’t question my methods. You know they work,” he says standing up and heading for the kitchen, clearly upset.

“Maybe it’s not a _ruse_ at all,” John mumbles.

“What did you _say_?” Sherlock asks, popping his head out of the kitchen door.

“I was just asking about the case your brother was supposed to bring,” John dissimulates. “That _was_ the reason why you called me here, right?”

“Yes, right,” Sherlock answers suspicious, coming back to his chair with a teapot in his hands. “Doctor David Whittaker, a scientist at a chemical weapons destruction plant, was found dead in his apartment two days ago.”

“Knowing Mycroft, the case is not about who killed the good doctor…” John adds.

“Of course not. Since the murder, the police are being blackmailed by an unidentified man, threatening to, and I quote, ‘bring real terror upon London’ unless he gets ten million pounds,” Sherlock explains.

“A blackmailing _terrorist_? Isn’t the _surprise_ factor one of the _most_ important things on terror attacks?” John teases.

“Well, if you’re in possession of four WWI artillery shells containing mustard gas, you might as well break the rules a little bit.”


	18. Return to Work

The next morning, Sherlock and John split so they can cover more ground with their investigation. While the doctor pays a visit to the lab where Doctor Whittaker worked, the detective calls on Molly to check on the post-mortem results. Later, they both meet DI Lestrade to examine the doctor’s apartment. It takes Sherlock less than an afternoon to locate the blackmailer, an arms dealer called Jonathan Kleinmann, already known to the police.

When Alexia gets back from the gym, she walks in on Sherlock and John discussing the case.

“Ms Gavin, do you mind coming in here for a moment?” Sherlock asks.

She stops on her tracks on the way upstairs. Slinking into the living room, she asks, looking puzzled: “What’s up, Holmes? Oh, hello, John. Didn’t know you were here,” she exclaims, rushing to the doctor to kiss him on the cheek. Sherlock sighs annoyed. “Where is Rosie?” She asks, ignoring him.

“Down stairs, with Mrs Hudson,” John responds, keeping up the chit-chat to irritate his friend.

“Okay, okay. _Enough_ you two,” Sherlock interrupts them crossly. “Ms Gavin, what can you tell us about a Mr Jonathan Kleinmann?”

She stares at him in shocked disbelief. “Who?” She asks, trying to stall.

“Oh, you _know_ who,” Sherlock explains in a melodic tone. “The man you and Amy when to America to spy on!”

Alexia turns a few shades paler with shock. _How does he know this? Did she disclose information that she shouldn’t have in anyway?_ “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, trying to gain time, regretting not leaving Baker Street when she had the chance.

“Relax, Ms Gavin, you didn’t jeopardise the _ongoing_ investigation,” Sherlock continues. “At least not deliberately. I just inferred it from all the observations during our _conversations_.”

Alexia stands paralysed with astonishment. _Why didn’t she leave when she had a chance? The safe house was not so bad. Now, Mycroft would be really angry. Even worse, disappointed. And she hated even the thought of disappointing Mr Holmes. What was she thinking, staying in Bakes Street?_ “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she repeats herself, sticking to her training.

“Oh, I think we are _beyond_ the denial point, now, Ms Gavin,” Sherlock adds. “I _know_ you went to Texas to scrutinize Mr Kleinmann’s business selling weapons on the dark net.”

Her jaw drops a little. She was hoping he had misread whatever she said and gotten something wrong. _How can I fix this?_ Panic was starting to spread. “How did you come up with _that_? She says, trying to stick to the denial tactic.

“You told me _part_ of it and I found out the rest,” Sherlock answers conceitedly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind sitting down so we can keep on with our talk!” He completes, pointing to the chair standing in front on the fireplace.

“Where? In the _client_ chair? She asks, still looking shocked. “Why? I’m not a client.”

“No, but some sort of witness, so sit down.” Sherlock firmly instructs her.

“Don’t worry, Alex. We just want to talk to you,” John tries to reassure her.

“And the sofa is too far,” Sherlock adds, while she takes the sit with a resigned sigh and a look of utter vulnerability towards the doctor. “So, what can you tell us?”

“I can’t tell you _anything_ ,” she answers contritely. “The case is still _open_.”

“Oh, come on,” Sherlock groans in outrage, while John smiles amused.

“Tell me how _you_ found out about him and I’ll evaluate if I have a reason to bypass the top secret status of the case,” Alexia answers, clearly anxious.

“Okay, if you insists,” Sherlock says. “The night we met your friend Ms Aldwin in her cake shop, you greeted her in Texan accent; decidedly an insider joke from your time together in America,” he explains, gesticulating as he does it. “Of course, this could be simply relating to the recurrent mistaken association of Texan accent with Americans in general, but your friend _is_ American, so you probably would not make _that_ sort of joke. Much more plausible is that you two were referring to a shared experience; maybe someone you know, or maybe, the place you stayed while working your case. Based on that information, I checked the National Crime Agency’s list of most wanted criminal dating back six years ago and found one suspect out of Texas: Mr Jonathan Kleinmann. His _Modus Operandi_ involving, as it does, selling weapons on the dark net explains the need for Ms Aldwin’s participation, while you ran the actual physical part of monitoring of businesses.”

“I knew this would happen,” she mutters, staring at her knees, stopping herself from completing with _if I stayed here_.

“Don’t torture yourself. That’s what he does,” John tries to comfort her.

“And I’m _good_ at it,” Sherlock replies teasingly. “Now, tells us what you know about Mr Kleinmann.”

“First tell me why you want to know.” Before Sherlock can protest, she adds, returning his smug look with an icy one: “As I said, I need a reason to reverse the status of the case.”

Sherlock continues smiling while John explains: “It’s about the case Mycroft brought in; the one with the dead scientist.”

“You think he killed the guy?”

“I _know_ he killed the guy,” Sherlock answers proudly.

“Then go to the police,” she gets up and walks towards the door. “That is not _enough_ to change the case’s status.”

“Well, he killed a man,” John interjects. “Isn’t _murder_ enough?”

“Sorry. He’s killed before,” she says searching her coat for her telephone. “His lawyers get him out every time. It has to be something _bigger_!”

“Bigger than _murder_?” John complains.

“I don’t make the rules,” Alexia shrugs, causing John to snort in disapproval.

“He is blackmailing the police,” Sherlock adds candidly.

“What do you mean?” She asks, stopping and staring back at him.

“The night doctor Whittaker was killed, four WWI artillery shells containing mustard gas he was supposed to prepare for destruction went missing from his lab. Now the police are being threatened with a terror attack in London if they don’t pay a _very large_ sum,” Sherlock calmly explains, while Alexia returns to the client chair, barely blinking.

“And you are _100%_ sure this is Kleinmann?”

“Of _course_ I am,” Sherlock answers indignant.

“That is, in fact, very grave,” she ponders, staring to the phone in her hand. “Why would a successful arms and drug dealer blackmail the _police_? That makes no sense,”

“That is where _you_ come in,” John tells, sitting up on his chair. “We wondered if you had any information that could shed some light on his motives.”

“I can’t remember _any_ reason why he would do such a thing. This guy has always been very careful of every step he took; always had his back covered. That was the reason why we _never_ managed to catch him,” she explains, her eyes wondering out of the window.

“Before you didn’t have _me_ to analyse the information you gathered,” Sherlock retorts, pleased with himself.

Both John and Alexia roll their eyes synchronised. “As _presumptuous_ as that is, he _is_ right,” Alexia says startled. “I guess I can try to help you.”

“You guess?” Sherlock starts again, but she is calling someone on her phone, holding her index finger up in his face so he will be silent.

“Amy, hi,” she says.

“Hello, Alex. Have you shagged the detective already?” Amy jokes crudely on the other side of the phone.

“This is a _professional_ call, Amy Adwin. Behave,” Alexia reprimands her friend, to the sound of uncontrolled laughter. “Are you done?” She asks grumpily while the other finally stops. “Then listen. Seems like our friend Kleinamnn is in town. Holmes and John think he’s involved on a murder case they are investigating.

“Alex, you remember you’re not supposed to talk about this case with them,” Amy interrupts her worried.

“Of _course_ , but I think they are _on_ to something here. They’ve found out that Kleinamnn is doing something very strange at the moment: He is blackmailing the police with WWI chemical weapons.”

“What? The sly guy who _always_ skewed away from the police?” Amy asks completely shocked.

“Apparently,” Alexia replies.

“That makes _no_ sense. Why would he do _that_ all of a sudden?” She stays silent for a moment. “Why do Sherlock and John even think this is Kleinmann?”

“Well, he’s Sherlock Holmes. I just assumed he is right,” Alexia justifies herself, her voice dropping to a whisper, what doesn’t stop Sherlock and John from giggling at her comment.

“Alex, Alex, Alex,” Amy replies on a mock-concerned voice. “I never thought you would let your feelings for someone influence on an investigation.”

“No such thing, Amy,” Alexia answers annoyed to her friends wild laughter. “I just didn’t have the time to ask that yet. I’m pretty sure Holmes and John will _gladly_ explain how they came to that conclusion, won’t them?” she says, nodding at the two supplicant. “I’m putting you on speaker,” she tells Amy, moving her chair closer to the two men. “Now, Holmes, as you’re always so happy to do, could you tell us how you _know_ this is all Jonathan Kleinmann’s doing?”

Sherlock smirks, self-satisfied. “Upon analysing doctor Whittaker’s computer, I found some emails on his account, threatening him over some borrowed money. I could trace the IP over different localities back San Antonio, Texas, where, thanks to Ms Gavin’s confirmation, I _now_ know the two of you worked on a case about six years ago. I still had to find out who sent the emails, so I examined the texts for the linguistic characteristics that are _individual_ to every person.”

“He found a shoe print in the crime scene,” John interrupts, slightly annoyed with his friends boasting. Alexia rolls her eyes, actually smiling, while Amy laughs on the line. “Kleinmann wears some kind of boots that are only made in San Antonio.”

“So, what do you need our help for?” Amy asks, still laughing.

“We know that Mr Kleinmann is somewhere in London, but we don’t know where,” Sherlock answers, still undecided if he is insulted by John’s interruption or amused by the women’s reactions. “And I hopped, access to the information you two collected in America might help me figure out where he is hiding.”

“But the records we have are _six_ years old. I don’t think they will help,” Amy answers.

“I was thinking that, maybe if Holmes take a look at them, he might find something we didn’t catch back them,” Alexia explains, causing Amy to make a snort. “I was also hopping you could do some _digging_ for us: find out the _current_ state of the case?”

“You want me to _hack_ into the service’s networks? You’re going _too_ far now, my friend,” Amy retorts steamed up.

“It’s not like you haven’t done I before, Amy.” Alexia replies begging. “It would take you _fifteen_ minutes and we could end up _catching_ Kleinmann.”

“Not to mention avoiding a potentially _deadly_ terror attack in London,” Sherlock adds gravely.

“Right,” Alexia interjects. “It’s a win/win. Come on, Amy.”

She considers for a few seconds. “Alright, I’ll do it. Give me an email address to send the files to.”

 

_______________

Mrs Hudson is surprised by the confusion she finds when opens the door to Sherlock’s living room, holding Rosie in her arms: there are sheets of paper spread all over the floor; pictures, maps and more paper hanging on the walls, and both Sherlock and Alexia are working on different lap tops; he on his desk, she on the sofa.

“Where is John?” She asks, breaking the contrasting silence.

“In here,” the doctor answers from the kitchen.

As the landlady follows his voice, she notices with a gasp that the literal paper trail continues into the kitchen, where John is sitting by the table, working on yet another laptop. “John, you know I don’t mind taking care of your daughter while you two work cases, but it’s way past midnight now. She already fell asleep and woke up _twice_ , asking for her daddy. I _do_ believe _you_ should take care of her now!”

“Oh, my god! Rosie!” John cries, standing up and staggering towards his daughter.

“You forgot about her, didn’t you?” Mrs Hudson accuses him.

“No, no, no. I just didn’t see the time going by,” John justifies himself.

“He forgot her,” Sherlock mouths to Alexia, causing her to giggle with sympathy.

“I guess I better take her home,” John adds, taking his drowsy daughter from Mrs Hudson’s arms. “Hum, how should I do this?” He says, completely lost in the confusion of his thoughts. “Can you two work it out alone while I find someone to take care of her?”

“You can put her on my bed, John,” Alexia offers. “It used to be your room anyway.”

“Aren’t you going to need it when you go to sleep?” He asks, still a bit confused.

“Oh, I won’t be sleeping until we find a solution to this case,” she reassures him. “Go, put her to sleep and come back when you’re done.”

John seems content with the suggestion when Sherlock shoots him an approving smile. He heads up the stairs with Rosie, while Mrs Hudson inspects the room one more time.

“Oh, Sherlock. You manage to spoil Alexia as well,” she says, leaving the room with a sigh.

Sherlock nods smilingly to Alexia: “Back to work?” She nods back in approval and complete silence takes back control over the apartment. A few hours go by until Alexia, feeling tiredness starting to take over, notices that John didn’t come back.

“Holmes, do you think something happened to John?” She asks, stretching out on the sofa, the laptop balancing on her legs.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers without looking up from his screen. “He fell asleep. It’s a common problem amongst new parents.”

“We better let him sleep then,” she adds, yawning.

“Do you need a pause?” He asks, observing her. “Should I make us some tea?”

“No, I’m okay,” she retorts, positioning the laptop so she can continue reading. “Found anything interesting yet?”

“Lots,” he replies, focusing on the screen. “None of which actually helps us locate Mr Kleinmann.”

“Same here,” she adds, stretching even more in the sofa. “Back to work, then!”

The silence that follows is only interrupted by the sound of their typing and the occasional printing and hanging of a new piece of paper. Within a few more hours, even these noises die out. When Sherlock finally has a break in the case, Alexia is fast asleep on the sofa. He stands up carefully not to make any sound, walks into his room and comes back with a blanket. He takes Alexia’s laptop away and covers her, making sure he does not wake her up. He goes back to his desk, stares at her for a couple of second and returns to work.


	19. See You in Baker Street

Closing the cab door, John stares at Sherlock with a suspicious look.

“What?” The detective asks irritated.

“Why do you have to be such a jerk?” John explodes.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock interjects, honestly surprised.

“All Alexia wanted was to help us and it would have been fair, because we only found out where this guy is hiding because of all the work she and Amy did.”

Sherlock stares back at him even more stunned. “John, how do you suggest we allow Ms Gavin to helps us detain Mr Kleinmann without jeopardising her _being dead_ -cover story?”

John stares out of the window, upset. “You didn’t need to be rude, tough!” John replies.

“Are you worried about Ms Gavin’s feelings or about her warnings?”

“Both,” John spits out his answer. “She worked in this case for years and if she tells us that the man is too dangerous for us to face alone, I believe her.”

“If she worked with him before, there is a big chance somebody will recognise her,” Sherlock retorts facing the window.

“We could at least have called the police. You never call the police,” John adds flustered.

“There is no time!” Sherlock cries upset.

“Sherlock, he is under tremendous pressure from different varieties of Russian criminals at the moment. He is desperate enough to threaten the London police. You really think _you and I_ can take him alone?”

“At the moment, the two of us is _all_ we have,” Sherlock ends the conversation.

Both of them remain silent for the rest of the ride. Within twenty minutes, the cab stops across the street from a car workshop in Islington.

“You’re sure this is it?” John asks, examining the open gate of the vast property. “This doesn’t look very _private_.”

“There should be some sort of shed somewhere in the middle. According to the satellite image,” Sherlock explains, moving quickly inside the enclosure.

A few minutes sneaking around old car’s bodyworks and Jon and Sherlock come up to a middle sized hangar, where there is a certain commotion going on. Entering the building, they discover a group of men trying to open the WWI shells in a very precarious way.

“What are these morons trying to do? _Kill_ themselves?” Sherlock whispered furiously.

“I _told_ you we should have called the police,” John interjected distressed.

“We have to stop them, John.”

“How? They are _five_ ; we are _two_. And they have four highly unstable chemical bombs!”

“You’re forgetting I’m a chemist,” Sherlock responds, preparing to storm the area where the men are working.

“Sherlock, they will _shoot_ you before you even get close to those shells,” John warns, stopping him from moving. “We should have called bomb disposal.”

“Did you bring your gun?” Sherlock asks, after considering for a few seconds. John nods, showing him the automatic weapon hidden by his jacket. “Good. Go outside and make some noise. Hopefully, they will go out to see what it is and I can take a look at the shells.”

“If _any_ of them do come out, how do you suggest I defend myself from all the shooting?” John asks aggravated.

“I suggest you hide,” Sherlock answers insolently. “We’ve been in worst situations than this. Remember the black lotus gang?”

“I don’t think that was _worse_ than this,” John adds, sneaking outside. “They didn’t have bombs.”

Crouching among rows of tool cabinets, Sherlock waits for the sound of John’s gun. It comes accompanied by the noise of car parts tumbling to the ground and a succession of car alarms. Whatever John had found outside, it was working perfectly: all the men run out of the hangar to find out what was causing all the racket. Moving swiftly, Sherlock approaches the table in the corner of the room to examine the shells the m. Trying to figure out how to secure them quickly enough to still help John outside; he doesn’t notice one of the men approaching from behind. He is startled by the sound of the slide of a semi-automatic handgun being pulled. As he turns around, he is left face to face with Jonathan Kleinmann himself.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock answers, slowly raising his hands. “You need to let me dispose of these shells safely before something _really bad_ happens, Mr Kleinmann.”

“You know how to do this?”

“Yes!”

“Good. Then open them,” Kleinmann orders.

“Mr Kleinmann, the shells are too unstable to be open safely. They could explode at any moment…”

“DO IT!” Kleinmann shouts, moving closer and putting the gun to Sherlock’s head. “Open them or I’ll _shoot_ them!”

“OKAY! Okay!” Sherlock answers, trying to keep his calm. He looks down at the shells, but has absolutely no idea of what to do next. Feeling the cold barrel of the gun pressing a bit harder against his temple, he catches the reflection of a figure completely clad in black on the window in front of him. When he locks eyes with the reflection, the figure puts a forefinger over its lips, gesturing he should keep quiet, followed by a gesture for him to get down.

After that, everything happens very quickly:  the figure shouts: “Now”; Sherlock drops to his knees and a shot hits Kleinmann’s gun holding hand. With a scream, he falls to the floor in pain, while the gun flies and lands behind the table. The place is silent for a couple a seconds, and all that Sherlock can hear is his own breathing.

“Are the shells safe?” The figure asks through a black ski mask, walking towards the injured Kleinmann, handcuffs in hand. Sherlock immediately recognises Alexia’s voice.

“What are you doing here?”

“Don’t blow my cover, Holmes. No names,” Alexia warns him, carefully biding the other man’s one unharmed hand to the table. “John sent me a message with your location,” she says, checking Kleinmann’s bleeding hand.

“And you decided to put everything at risk by coming here?” Sherlock asks.

“No, I called your brother, organised some back up, _then_ came here,” she explains while they hear the first sirens outside. “I need a paramedic here!” She shouts.

“You called my brother?” He asks impatiently.

“Yes, of course I did,” she answers heatedly. “Now, are the shells safe?” she asks as John joins them running.

“I’ve heard a shot! What happened?” He says, freezing on his tracks when he notices Alexia.

“That was me,” says Alexia, putting her gun away. “Had to stop that guy _blowing_ your friend’s brains up,” she snaps, pointing to the dealer on the floor.

“So, _you_ called the police,” John stated, recognising Alexia. She nods. “They arrested all of them and are just combing the place to see if they find anyone else. Did you find the shells?”

“You could have blown everything up, you know?” Sherlock complains.

“But I didn’t,” Alexia answers offended.

“You shot this guy in the hand?” John asks, after examining Kleinmann’s injuries. Alexia nods once again.

“She could have missed and hit my head,” Sherlock protests. “Or even worse: hit the gun and set the shells off.”

“But I didn’t,” Alexia shouts at him. “And I just saved your ass right now.”

Two paramedics burst through the door, breaking the mounting tension. John shows them the injured arms dealer, while Sherlock calms down a bit and goes back to the table where the shells lay.

“They are all here, but not stabilized enough to be moved. You didn’t happen to called specialist from the disposal services, by any chance?” Sherlock asks Alexia ironically.

“Your brother probably did,” she answers, stepping up to the desk where the shells lay. “They are probably already there.”

“I can’t believe you called my brother,” Sherlock starts complaining again.

“If I hadn’t, we would not have paramedics or the police at hand. Or a specialist,” Alexia retorts angry. “And you just said we _need_ one!”

“Enough, you two!” John interferes. “You are at each other’s throats all day already. It’s not helping.”

Sherlock and Alexia look at each other, rage in in the eyes of both. “Right,” she says. “I better go before someone blows my cover.”

Sherlock watches as she slowly walks out of the hangar. He has a feeling of d _éjà-vu_ which annoys him.

“You can say what you want, Sherlock. But that was one great shot,” John remarks, going back to helping the paramedics with Kleinmann.

The doctor’s comment sparks Sherlock’s memory and the _déjà-vu_ sensation starts making sense: he had witness this black cladded figure before, only that back then, the figure was _shooting_ him, not _saving_ him. Overwhelm by the wish to clear things up, rushes out of the hangar after her. He finds her preparing to climb the lowest part of the enclosure’s bordering wall.

“Ms Gavin, wait!” He calls approaching her hurriedly.

Upon hearing his voice, she turns around to check if there is anyone who could have heard him. Noticing she is safe, she takes off the ski mask: “What do you want, Holmes? Haven’t you insulted me enough for today?”

More than anger, her voice carries despondency. _Gain her trust_ , John’s voice rings in Sherlock’s head. He chooses to leave the questioning for later. “I wanted to apologise,” he says reaching for her hand. “That was one _great_ shot and I need to thank you for saving me.”

Alexia stands speechless, staring at Sherlock’s eyes. She feels her heart pounding once again and her legs starting to tremble. “It’s nothing,” she says in a weak voice.

“You better go now before the police find you here,” he says in a kind voice, still holding her gloved hand. “See you in Baker Street.”


	20. Closing the Door behind Him

When they arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock stops on the steps of 221, staring at the door-knocker.

“Mycroft is here,” he claims. “And he is _furious_.”

“The door knocker?” John asks, pointing at the obvious.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, opening the door and holding it so John can pass. “He not only straightened, he _polished_ it.”

Opening the door to the living room, they find Alexia and Mycroft silently sipping their tea; him sitting on Sherlock’s chair, she on John’s.

“Good afternoon, brother mine,” Sherlock announces, hanging his coat. “I hope you’re having a pleasant day.”

“Not thanks to _you_ ,” Mycroft responds, sitting his cup on the side table. “What were you thinking, going out alone after one of the most dangerous criminals in the world; and one in possession of precarious chemical weapons, for that matter.”

“Tattle much, Ms Gavin?” Sherlock provokes her on his way to the window.

“My _tattling_ saved a number of lives today, including yours,” she retorts outraged.

“Here we go again,” John complains, slumping down on the sofa. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Even though I admit that having an expert at hand sped up the process of safeguarding those shells, I do take issue with your _firing_ a gun in their direction.”

“I didn’t shoot in their direction; I shot at Kleinmann’s hand and I hit it,” Alexia answers outrage. “You said _yourself_ it was a great shot!”

“Yes. _Too_ good, actually,” Sherlock proclaims. “One of the _best_ shots I’ve ever seen, as a matter of fact. And that is _exactly_ the problem here: where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“I am a secret intelligence officer! Good marksmanship is a _requirement_ ,” Alexia answers despondently, standing up and walking towards Sherlock.

“Until this day, I’ve only seen two people shoot _that well_ in my life. One of them is the good doctor sitting on the sofa over there; the other was his wife.”

“So?” Alexia challenges him, but can’t stop a touch of hesitation from leaking into her voice.

“So,” Sherlock says, taking a deep breath to start one of the clever explanations he liked so much. “Eight years ago you left the service to take part on an external training, re-joining 18 months later to move to Texas.”

“What does _that_ have to do with how well I shoot?” Alexia interrupts exasperated.

“Let me finish,” Sherlock responds, while Mycroft and John watch the discussion with appalled faces. “By about that same time, the woman we came to know as Mary Morstan was working as part of a group of freelance assassins called A.G.R.A..The group had already established themselves as a _viable_ alternative for the British government, as my dear brother will confirm,” he notes with a nod to Mycroft

“Still not seeing the point of this,” Alexia interrupts again, her voice betrays her growing tension.

“Okay, Ms Gavin, let’s be _direct_ then,” he says, standing in fort of her. “Did Mary _teach_ you to shoot like that during this training you did?”

“I CAN’T TELL YOU THAT!” Alexia shouts and runs to the window, breathing deeply. John, stunned by her reaction, motions to go comfort her, but Sherlock stops him.

“Mycroft, can you, _please_ , allow her to tell me this information?” Sherlock demands without looking at his brother. “Ms Gavin has been having problems with being honest with her past.”

“Why does it matter, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, apparently untouched by their discussion.

“Because I can’t _trust_ her if I don’t know who she is.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and swiftly stands up. “You still haven’t given up on this _scheme_ , little brother? It’s been over a month now. It’s becoming dull, Sherlock. I suggest you either learn to live with the fact that there are things you will never know about people; _or_ you restrain from attempting to live amongst them _at all_ ,” he comments walking to the door. “As to you, Ms Gavin, please, have mercy on _all of us_. Be completely honest about your life with my brother and his friend. This way, we might finally put an end to Sherlock’s little _quest for the truth_ ; and you can put it all behind yourself.”

“Are you allowing her to tell me everything, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, astounded.

“No,” the older brother answers by the door. “It was never _my_ secret for her to keep,” he says, closing the door behind him.

In the silence that ensues, all they can hear is Mycroft’s steps going down the stairs and Alexia restless breathing. She stares at the darkening sky outside the window for a moment, tryingto subdue the quiver of her muscles. Pumping her hands into fists, she turns around to face the two wide-eyed men, frozen to their spots.

“You are right, Holmes,” she says, knucles turning white from the tension on her fists. “The person you knew as Mary Morstan taught me to shoot me like that during the training boot camp I took part on eight years ago,” she explains, taking a deep breath, as if it would give her the strength to go on. “As you can imagine, I knew her as Rosamund, or Ros. She became one of my best friends and I was going to join her freelance group, hadn’t Lady Smallwood offered me the Kleinmann case.” John stares at her at least as stunned as before, but Sherlock smiles smugly, seeing his theory proved. “I’m willing to tell you my whole story, with _one_ condition: That you don’t interrupt me; don’t ask questions, just let me finish,” she asks, looking startled from one to the other.

Sherlock and John instinctively look at each other and nod in agreement. So Alexia takes a chair and places it on the _client position_. “The sofa is too far,” she jokes, trying to lighten up the mood and disguise her own anxiety. The two men take their respective places.

“From the top, then,” she says, settling on her chair. “As Holmes deduced long ago, I was born in Germany and was adopted as a baby by the _very rich_ owner of a _very famous_ luxury Hotel in Munich. He raised me with all the comfort and papering a very large income could offer. He was _indeed_ a loving, caring father, admired by all of the Bavarian society for raising an orphan child all alone. Until, around the time I turned sixteen, I found out that his fortune came not exactly from hospitality, but from drug dealing and other kinds of dirty businesses he used his hotel as a front for,” she stops to take a breath here; telling the story clearly pains her. “When I confronted him, he decided I was too much of a liability to keep around and, literally, threw me out of the window. I guess he thought it would kill me, but all it did was break my wrist, so he sent his security guards after me. I managed to escape, hiding in the woods. I lived on the streets in different villages and towns for months; always running away when I thought somebody was after me. Twice his hit men tried but failed to harm me, so I knew I wasn’t going to be safe anywhere in Bavaria. For almost two years, I moved around different German cities, always looking over my shoulder, never trusting anyone, until my father’s hit men found me in Hamburg. And this time, they got me,” she says, taking another deep breath. Both John and Sherlock listen intently; the doctor’s eyes full of empathy, the detective’s attentive but emotionless. “They shot me and left me almost dead in a ditch. I _would_ have died if Lady Smallwood hadn’t found me,” Alexia continues. “She took me to hospital and arranged special transportation for me to be brought to England. She made sure I got the best treatment possible. Once I was well enough, she put me on a witness protection program so my adoptive father wouldn’t find me, even if he discovered they have failed to kill me in Hamburg. So, I guess even you, Holmes, can see why I would do _anything_ to help that woman,” she says, raising her teary eyes to meet Sherlock’s icy ones. “Lady Smallwood gave me a new name, a new life and, most important, restored my sense of safety. She has been there for me _every time_ I needed ever since. She even helped me join the secret intelligence service when I demonstrated interest on the job.”

“Sorry for interrupting, but I have to ask,” Sherlock stops her, breaking his word. “How come your adoptive father was never brought to justice?”

“Blackmail. Over the years he has _provided_ many illegal services to celebrities and politicians, and he uses this as pressure points against them,” she explains, trying to remain objective. “The police, especially the Bavarian police, are at least _conniving_ with him. _Nothing_ gets investigated; at least not properly. Not even my disappearance.”

“Did Mary know all this?” John asks, grasping for more information about his wife.

“Of course she did,” Alexia answers, perking up. “She was my best friend. Family, really.”

“And where _were_ you when she and her team were ambushed in Tbilisi?” He asks with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“As I said, I was in America. Lady Smallwood offered me Kleimann’s case and I took it.”

“So, you let your _best_ _friend_ die because of a better job?” John retorts resentful.

“John, the day I heard of what happened to A.G.R.A. I was desperate,” Alexia looks imploringly at him, tears rolling down her face. “Never before in my life I regretted a decision as I regretted that one.”

“How could you leave someone you called _family_ behind?” John continues to attack her bitterly.

“John,” Sherlock intervenes. “Even if she _had_ been with Mary that day in Tbilisi, the results would have been the same. A.G.R.A. would still have been destroyed.”

“What bothers me is the betrayal, Sherlock.” John adds nervously as Alexia’s tears fall faster. “To _claim_ to be someone’s friend but _abandon_ them like this...”

“She didn’t _betray_ Mary, John,” Sherlock growls, silencing the other two. “Vivian _Norbury_ did. And unless Ms Gavin had any knowledge of Norbury’s plans, there was _nothing_ she could have done to stop her,” he declares, offering Alexia a box of tissues, which she promptly accepts. He waits a couple of moments, making sure both John and Alexia are calmer and continues. “Now, John, if you could at least _defer_ from blaming anyone else but the real killer for your wife’s death to another time, I still have questions I would like to ask Ms Gavin.” John fidgets on his chair, as if a new sitting position could hide his awkwardness. Alexia takes a deep breath, staring dejected at her knees. “Okay, then. Ms Gavin, where did you actually _meet_ Mary? At the training camp?”

“No, we worked parallel in some cases,” she answers in a weak voice, without raising her eyes. “Agents of the service would take care of investigations and provide data, so that A.G.R.A. could go in and do their _job_.”

“You mean _kill_ people,” Sherlock adds. Alexia responds by raising her eyebrows. “You said you _almost_ joined them. Did _that_ happen during the training camp?”

“No. I took part on that training _because_ she invited me to join them. We were already friends before that.”

“Did you know she survived the Tbilisi fiasco?” John asks, finding the courage to speak again.

“No. I only found out when Amy showed me the picture of your wedding on the papers,” Alexia answers, finally raising her eyes.

“Did you contact her once you found out?” John questions.

“Of course. Amy and I came back from America and looked her up,” Alexia explains, with a shy smile. “That was the _happiest_ I ever was to see someone.”

“But you two went _back_ to America afterwards.” Sherlock questions on.

“No, _I_ went back. Amy took the opportunity to remain here and quit the service. She was fed up with the life we were living and impressed with Ros’ happiness.”

“Why did you go back alone, then? Both your best friends were out of the service, out of that terrible life. Why not quit as well?” John asks.

“That terrible life was – _is_ – the one I chose for myself. And, as I said before, I’m good at it. Unlike both Ros and Amy, I didn’t _want_ to quit.”

“So, you chose to _loose_ contact with your best friends?” John asks in a hurtful tone.

“No, the three of us kept constant contact, over the phone and over the internet,” Alexia explains. “That is how I know a lot of what I know about the two of you,” she admits with an abash smile.

“Wasn’t that _dangerous_?” He retorts.

“We were three professionals. We _knew_ how to do it,” she corrects him. “And it helps if you have the world’s best hacker on your side.”

“Okay,” Sherlock exclaims, trying to organise his thoughts. “So, you went back to America alone and stayed there until you’ve heard of Mary’s death?” Alexia nods. “Did Lady Smallwood ask you to come back?”

“No, I decided to come back. My best friend was dead and Lady Smallwood needed help. I couldn’t stay away.”

“But what happened to _being good at what you did_ and _not wanting to quit the life you chose_?” Sherlock asks.

“I didn’t _quit_ the service. I still dealt with _some_ cases, just from another perspective and not so intensively as before,” she answers irritated.

All three fall silent for a few moments, each considering a different part of the story she just told. Finally, Sherlock breaks the silence.

“You said you got a new name when you were put on witness protection; and you told me you chose the name _Alexia Gavin_. Out of curiosity: what was your _original_ name, your _German_ name?

“Cäcilie Adler,” she answers decidedly.

“Adler? Like in _Irene_ … Adler?” John asks thunderstruck.

“Yes. What are the odds, right?” She answers with a sardonic smile.

“Very high,” Sherlock replies in a matter-of-fact tone. “Adler is a common German surname, with a Christian origin; the symbol of John the Evangelist.”

“No,” Alexia interrupts him. “I meant that Irene _Norton_ would marry my adoptive father!”

Now both men look shocked. Alexia looks a bit baffled by their reaction herself. “You didn’t _know_ that Irene Adler is married to _Florian_ Adler?” She asks incredulously as both men just stare at each other. Sherlock turns a shade paler. Alexia also does not seem to believe what she is witnessing. John is the first one to speak:

“Did you _know_ this?” Sherlock remains quiet. “You saved her from extremists; you’ve been texting her for years and god _knows_ what else, but you didn’t know she was _married_?” John asks, as Sherlock is rendered mute, and Alexia is left feeling awkward.

“You can find it online. It’s even on Wikipedia – at least on the German site, next to me being _vermutlich tot_ ,” Alexia completes, stunned at Sherlock’s mistake. “It was on her _file_ …”

“He never _read_ her file,” John cries, staring at his friend’s face. “Just wanted to keep her phone,” he adds in an ironic, nervous voice. “How _could_ this have happened? You always notice EVERYTHING!” John cries at a non-responsive Sherlock: “You and this woman, Sherlock!” Still no response. “She _really_ messed you up, didn’t she?”

“Come on, John. We all make mistakes,” Alexia defends Sherlock. “You weren’t exactly thorough about Ros, I mean, Mary either?”

“What do you mean, about Mary?” John asks feeling outraged.

“Well, you didn’t _noticed_ she was an assassin until Sherlock showed you,” she arguments. “Even _he_ did not quite get what she did for a living until she shot him…”

John stares her in the face, looking annoyed: “You know _way_ much more about our lives than we know about yours, you know, Alex?”

“I was trying to fix that, but it derailed majestically,” she tries to justify herself and lighten the mood.

Sherlock jumps from his chair, finally figuring out his mistake. “I never _read_ her file.” He gets up and walks to John, still looking a bit shaken. “I relied only on the information I got on her website and from her. I’ve never read Mycroft’s file on her.”

“But you saved her; you texted her; you had dinner with her... God knows what else you did with her, but THAT little detail escaped your notice?”

“I guess so,” Sherlock answered, clearly ashamed of himself.

“I know I’ve encouraged you to go after her, but I wonder if she is any good for you.”

Alexia looks a bit concerned about this piece of information, but tries to undo the tension that has, once again, built around them: “Well, it doesn’t matter who knew what and when. It doesn’t change anything in anybody’s past, does it?” She asks, waiting for the pair to come around. As there is no reaction, she moves on: “Discussing this will not help at all.” All three remain as they are, each staring at something else, until Sherlock walks towards the door, puts on his coat and says:

“I’m going out!” He leaves, closing the door behind him.


	21. A Sinking Feeling to Her Stomach

John and Alexia sit in silence for a couple of moments, both staring blinding at different walls.

“Where did he go?” Alexia asks, breaking the stillness but not the awkwardness between the two.

“I have no idea,” John answers coldly. “Talk to Mycroft; talk to Irene; throw himself from a rooftop. Who knows?” The doctor adds sardonically.

Alexia feels completely deflated. She had feared the results of her telling John and Sherlock about her past, but she expected the _detective_ to protest the most, not John. And this really upsets her. The friendship she forged with John was the silver lining which came out of the whole being kidnapped and shot affair. She could not let this relationship be spoiled like this. She owed it to Ros to at least be in good terms with her husband.

“John,” she calls with a faltering voice. “I hope I can still call you that.”

“It is still my name,” he replies, still scornfully.

“Thank you,” she answers with more hope than certainty. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything from the start.” John snorts disdainfully. “I was afraid of exactly _that_ sort of reaction.”

“How else am I supposed to react, Alexia?”

“You’re right,” she replies, his words beating her down on her seat. “But how was I supposed to even _tell_ you this? _Thanks for saving me. I’m your dead wife’s best friend from the time she was an assassin?_ ”

John remains silent, while Alexia stands up and walks towards the window to hide the tears rolling down her face. “I don’t understand how you could leave your _best friend_ alone like you did,” he says.

“I know this is how it looks like from the outside, but I didn’t leave her _alone_ , John. She had a team of highly trained professionals with her. We were _both_ doing our jobs,” she answers still staring out of the window to avoid showing him her tears. “It’s _terrible_ , but it is how the secret service works. That is the reason why she _left_. That’s the reason why _Amy_ left.”

“But _you_ never left,” John asks, resting his elbows on his knee.

“John, after all I told you tonight, you have to agree that my life was, to say the least, _less_ than blissful,” she says, walking back to her chair, whipping her tears. “It went from extremely sheltered to completely shattered to brand new in a matter of two years. The secret service may be dangerous, but at least it is a danger I choose for myself. It’s a shitty life, but it’s the life I _chose_.” John shoots her a small smile; the first honest one since she started telling her story. “Besides, I never found what Ros… _Mary_ found in her life.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the time I knew her – and I’m not just telling this to _flatter_ you – I never saw her as happy as after your wedding.”

“Really?” John asks, relaxing even more.

“No, actually, I’m wrong,” she corrects herself. “She was _happiest_ when Rosie was born.” John is really beaming now. Alexia smiles back. “I was _never_ that happy.”

“I don’t think I ever _will_ be again,” John replies with a touch of sadness.

“You see why keeping your friendship is so important to me? You and Rosie are the _closest_ I’ll ever be to my best friend.”

John looks her in the eyes and smiles. He knows, first-hand, how hard it is for someone to run away from their past. He feels a strong sense of warmth towards to Alexia – infused with a deep longing for Mary. He stands up, walks towards her and pets her in the back, before giving up and hugging her tightly. Both of them giggle.

“Friends?” Alexia asks with her begging eyes.

“Yeah, yeah!” John answers, sitting back on his chair. “But I still have some questions, though.”

“Okay,” she says with pretence leisure.

“About your father: Is Irene Adler your step-mom? You’re about the same age!”

“Well,” she answers, smiling at the nonsense of the question. “For all legal matters, Cäcilie Adler died on a ditch in Hamburg a long time ago, so, I guess she is _not_.”

“How come your father didn’t come to her rescue when she was on the run or even when she was almost killed by extremists?”

“He raised me from a baby and he still tried to strangle me and threw me from a third floor balcony. The man is _sick_. I don’t think he cares for anything but himself and his business.”

“Florian – that was his name, right? – is a lot older than her, right? You don’t think he married her out of love?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she answers, relaxing a bit. “My best guess is out of symbiosis. Either _she_ has dirt on him, and _he_ is paying her so she won’t tell anyone; or _he_ is paying _her_ to get dirt on other people so he can use it against them. Those are the two best theories I came up with over the years. But I would be seriously surprised if love actually EVER played any part on their marriage.”

“I never thought I would meet someone with past more messed up than Mary’s,” John replies after a few moments of silence.

“What about the _Holmes_ family?” Alexia answers in a mock-insulted tone. Both of them laugh.

“I better get going,” John says standing up and walking to the door. “Soon my daughter won’t recognise me anymore.”

“John, don’t worry. You’re a great dad and I’m sure _Mary_ would be proud of you,” she says, following him to the door. “Do you think Holmes will take a long time to come back?”

“Who knows?” John shrugs, putting on his jacket. “In all those years living with Sherlock, I’ve learned that he _will_ overreact about things, but I never know _how_ he will do it. Don’t worry. He _will_ show up at some point. And he _will_ be okay with everything.”

“I hope so,” she replies. “Get home safe.”

“I will.”

“John,” she calls, holding the door open when he starts going down the stairs. “Are we _really_ okay?”

“Yes!” John turns around with a friendly smile. “You’re my wife’s best friend. She would have been _mad_ at me if we weren’t.”

She smiles back at him and closes the door once he is out of sight. After considering for a couple of minutes, she takes her phone out and dials.

“Aaaaamy!” She wines into it. “I did it and it was _horrible_!”

“Oh, you poor thing,” her friend answers compassionately.

“It was a _disaster_.”

“But that was expectable, wasn’t it? Tell me everything.”

“I was _so_ nervous. I’ve made a complete fool of myself. Holmes simply _walked_ out. And John got _really_ mad…”

“ _John_ was there?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I would have had the _courage_ to do them separately.”

“Wait. _What_?” Amy asks confused. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“About me telling John and Sherlock about my past. What do you _think_ I’m talking about?”

“I thought you had _sex_ with Sherlock Holmes!” Amy answers, falling into a fit of laughter.

“Why would I do _that_?”

“Well, you solved a case _together_ ; you arrested a criminal you’ve been investigating _for years_ … I thought you two might have wanted to _celebrate_.”

“Oh, grow up, Amy,” Alexia reprimands. “Didn’t you _tell_ me to tell them the truth one of the last times we talked?”

“Yeah. I also told you to sleep with Sherlock every time we talked,” Amy replies, still laughing.

“What _happened_ to you? You used to be more serious. Retirement _changed_ you, Amy Aldwin.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been spending a lot of time on the net – the _normal_ one, not the _dark_ one. Did you know it’s filled with _pornography_?” She answers in a mock-offended tone.

“Amy, be serious. I need _help_ here.”

“Okay, okay,” Amy answers, getting a hold of herself. “So, John got mad at you?”

“Yes. He sort of accused me of betraying Ros by leaving for America and letting her go on the Georgia Embassy case without me.”

“How were you _supposed_ to know Norbury was a mole?”

“That is what _Holmes_ said.”

“He defended you?”

“Yeah. He was handling it all okay until he just _left_ without a word.”

“Just got up and _left_?”

“Yes. But I guess me pointing out his mistake made it all too _uncomfortable_.”

“What mistake?”

“He didn’t know Irene Adler was married to Florian.”

“ _What_?” Amy asks stunned. “But it’s everywhere on the internet. The normal one!”

“That’s what _I_ said.”

“And where did he go?”

“I have no idea. John said he does that kind of thing, but he didn’t know where he went either, but I am a bit worried about him.”

“Of _course_ you are,” Amy teases her.

“I’m serious, Amy. Who knows what this guy is doing. He _could_ become a liability.”

“Well, he _did_ mess up Bond Air. And _because_ of Irene Adler, wasn’t it?” Both women remain silent for a moment. “You know, there is a simple way you can find out where he went,” Amy remarks.

“How?”

“You still have surveillance across the street, don’t you?”

“Yes,” alexia answers, running to the window.

“If we know Mycroft, he is still keeping an eye on his little brother,” Amy explains. “I bet if you ask the guys across the street, they’ll tell you where Sherlock went.”

“You’re a genius, Amy. If Sterling is working tonight, he’ll tell me,” Alexia replies, cheering up.

“Yeah, Paul has always _gawked_ at your boobs. He will tell you anything, even his bank account pin number.”

“We have to use some men’s perversion for our _own_ advancement, right?”

“You do that,” Amy answers conversantly. “How about John? Was he still angry when he left?”

“No, I think I patched up things with him, even though he was very hurt,” Alexia says, thinking about the things the doctor accused her of doing. “Oh god… And I didn’t even tell them everything!” She adds with desperation.

“DUDE! All this and you didn’t tell them everything?” Amy asks confused. “What part didn’t you tell them?”

“The part _after_ Ros’ death!”

“How could you leave _that_ out? That’s the most important part!”

“I know. But Holmes got up and left, and John was all mad. I just couldn’t,” Alexia adds.

“You gotta tell’em that!”

“No! If they already reacted like _that_ , can you _imagine_ what they will do when they find out…” She stops, too scare to complete the thought.

“Alex, you are a _drama_ queen. You can’t live a simple, uncomplicated life. You _always_ look for that kind of problem.”

“I don’t _look_ for it; it _finds_ me,” Alexia replies offended.

“Right. I just don’t want to be on _your_ skin when they find out.”

“I have to get out of here,” she adds, panicking. “Have you had any luck on the apartment hunt so far?”

“Not much. This _is_ London, you know?”

“Nothing at all?”

“I’ll send you the stuff I found so far, but it’s all either too _expensive_ or too _far away_.”

“Send me _anything_. If I stay here, I will get into trouble.”

“You already _are_ in trouble, Alex,” Amy answers seriously. “Actually, you _are_ trouble. And that’s the reason why we _love_ you,” she jokes affectionately.

“Love you too, _dude_. Thanks for listening.”

Hanging up the phone, Alexia walks calmly to the window and, with the phone’s light, sends a sequence of intermittent flashes. She turns around and sits on Sherlock’s computer desk, waiting. In a few moments, her phone rings.

“Oh, hello. Sterling. Glad you answered so quickly,” Alexia says.

“Hello, Alexia. Everything okay? Do you need urgent help?”

“I do need your help, Paul, but it’s not exactly urgent. Can I call you _Paul_?” She says, going to the window and opening the drapes. “As you know, I’m alone here. There has been a discussion and Sherlock Holmes left some time ago. I am worried about his whereabouts and was _wondering_ if you guys had _eyes_ on him,” she says, flirtatiously stretching in front of the open window.

“Well, you don’t have _approval_ for that kind of information,” Sterling says, stopping for what Alexia knew was a better glance at the shape of her body through the window. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you _so_ much, Paul. You have _always_ been my favourite,” she says, hanging up. She calmly stretches a couple more time facing the window, before sitting back down on the computer desk. After a few minutes, she receives a picture of Sherlock entering a house in Belgravia. _What is this guy doing?_ She thinks, as she recognises the house as Irene Adler’s home, getting a sinking feeling to her stomach.


	22. Their Relationship Grew a Lot Closer

He notices the note, pinned with a knife to the door, before he gets to the landing. “I borrowed one of your laptops. If you want, we can talk.” He carefully takes knife and note from the door and enters the living room. He feels as content as he hasn’t felt in a long time now. Looking around the room, Sherlock hears the sound of Alexia getting out of bed and smiles. He puts knife and note on the mantel piece, removes and hang his coat and jacket before she starts coming down the stairs. When she opens the door, he is in the kitchen, making coffee.

“You’re up early,” she says, coming to the kitchen in her pyjamas, phone in one hand, laptop in the other.

“Good morning to you too, Ms Gavin,” Sherlock answers, smiling. “Would you like some coffee?”

Alexia smiles, putting the laptop down on the kitchen table and taking the cup he offers her. While he turns around, happily moving around the room, she notices he is wearing the same clothes he wore the night before. With uneasiness mounting, she asks: “Are you just coming back home?”

“Yes!” He says, taking a cup and the newspaper and walking to the living room.

“You spent the night…”

“Somewhere else,” he completes the sentence, before she can add _at Irene’s_.

Alexia feels her stomach drop; the same sensation one gets from a fall on a roller coaster. Sherlock had spent the night with Irene, and now she didn’t know how to react _. Is he lying to me? Why would he lie to me? Should I ask him? Should I let things as they were?_ At any rate, she cannot control the rage she is starting to feel.

“What did you need the computer for?” He asks, before she can figure out what to say.

“Oh,” she exclaims while her brain reorganises. “I was looking for apartments to rent,” she says, leaning against the kitchen door.

“You are planning to _leave_?” He asks, lowering the paper to look at her.

“Well, I guess I _should_. I’m feeling _much_ better now and I _do_ have to get back to work at some point,” she explains, taking a sip of the coffee.

“And you can’t do that from _here_?”

“What do you mean, from here?” She asks, wondering what his intentions are.

“I mean, _stay_ here. It’s a great location; you have friends here,” he starts explaining, but is interrupted by the sound of an orgasmic female sigh. The noise unsettles him for a second but, with a light shake of his head, he continues: “You’re _safe_ here. I made _sure_ nobody knows you’re alive…”

“Right, but this is not _my_ place. I don’t have a _real_ bed, I don’t pay rent,” she says, sitting down on John’s chair.

“Those are easily fixable,” he explains, while the orgasmic female sigh sound interrupts him once again. He ignores it once again. “We can set John’s old bed back up; or get a new one if you want. And as for the rent, I bet Mrs Hudson would _let_ you pay her, if you ask her,” he adds with a smile.

“But what about the things I told you last night?”

“What about them?”

“Aren’t you _upset_ about them?”

“No, not at all,” he says, going back to reading the newspaper. “Most of it I already knew.”

“You _knew_?” She asks suspicious.

“I have to admit that the adoptive father story was a bit more Egeus/Hermia than I expected, but the whole witness protection part was pretty obvious,” he says, pretending to read.

“Egeus/Hermia?” She retorts aggravated. “That’s my life you’re talking about.

“Well, it does sound _quite_ Shakespearean,” he says raising his eyes to meet hers. “Albeit more of a _tragedy_ than a _comedy_ , I’ll admit,” he says grinning, while another orgasmic female sigh sound is heard.

“What _is_ that?” She asks irritated.

“Text message,” he says, going back to the paper.

“Won’t you check on it?”

“No,” he says, pretending to be very busy.

“But it’s _annoying_ ,” she says frowning.

“Do as I do and ignore it,” he retorts, ignoring her.

Alexia stares at him scowling. “So, _nothing_ I said yesterday bothered you?” She provokes him.

“Nope,” he says, leafing through the paper.

She stares at him suspiciously. “Liar,” she mutters, standing up and walking to the kitchen.

“What did you say?” He asks, following her with his eyes.

“Nothing. I better get ready before Max arrives.”

“Oh, he hadn’t called it off, yet?” Sherlock asks without raising his eyes from the paper.

“No, why _would_ he?” she says, back at the kitchen door. Sherlock opens his paper, showing her the front page, which reads: ‘PM postpones vote due to broken ankle.’ “So, what does _that_ have to do with my workout with Max?”

“Oh, I just thought that, in the hierarchy of British politics, that patient almost _always_ has priority.”

“No, they have their _own_ doctors and therapists in Downing Street,” she dismisses his idea.

“You _think_?”

“I do,” she says, turning around and walking upstairs. When she gets back fifteen minutes later, clad in sports clothes and a sports bag in hand, Irene Adler is standing in the middle of the living room, talking uninterruptedly.

“I _would_ have called, but I know you won’t pick up your phone,” Irene finishes saying, as she notices Sherlock turning pale. “Who is _this_ young lady?” The woman asks with a hint of aversion, examining Alexia from head to toe.

“This is my new roommate, Amelia Earhart,” Sherlock explains, putting himself between the two women.

“Like the aviation pioneer?” Irene retorts, confused.

“Jean Gardner Batten,” Alexia answers, stepping from behind Sherlock. “Sherlock thinks it’s _funny_ to call me that because I’m training to be a pilot,” she says, putting out a hand to greet the other.

“You didn’t _tell_ me you had a new roommate. What happened to John?” Irene comments to Sherlock, ignoring Alexia. “But once again, _you_ did all the all the talking last night. He likes asking questions,” she adds towards Alexia. “It turns him on.”

Alexia’s stomach drops once again. Adler comments seem to confirm her fears that Sherlock had slept with the woman the night before.

“He left _so_ quickly this morning, he forgot his shawl,” Irene continues explaining to Alexia. Turning to Sherlock, she coos: “I didn’t want to go out of the country without giving it back to you,” she says, wrapping the scarf around his neck. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind if you would like to repeat it all before I travel in the evening. How about it?” She proposes, standing right in front of him, keeping a hold on his shawl.

Alexia stands in shock, watching, without any reaction. Any doubt of there being a relationship between them completely smashed by Irene’s attempt to seduce Sherlock right in front of her.

“As _tempting_ as that sounds, I promised to accompany Jean to the gym, as her original companion won’t be able to make it;” Sherlock apologises in a confident tone, swiftly getting out of her hold.

Before Alexia can start to protest, she receives a message from Max, telling he is stuck in Downing Street. She looks at Sherlock’s smile with an annoyed face: _you perceptive little bugger._ When Irene looks at her, inquisitive, she nods: “Yep, my friend cancelled on me and Sherlock here made an appointment with a personal trainer he knows.”

“Exactly. And we are running _late_ already,” he points out, looking at his watch. “We should get going or… _Bill_ will be disappointed,” he says, rushing both Irene and Alexia out of the apartment and down the stairs. Before getting in her town car, Irene begs Sherlock to call her in a week, when she is back in England,. He assures he will and, together with Alexia, he watches her car drive away. Once it’s out of sight, Sherlock hails a cab.

“ _Where_ are you going?” She asks, completely lost.

“To a gym,” Sherlock answers, holding the door of the car open for her. “You still need a work out, don’t you?”

“Right,” she answers, moving in still confused. “But you have to explain what just happened.”

Once they are both seated and on their way to South-East London, Sherlock starts clarifying: “I know Mrs Adler to monitor my movements,” he says, looking out of the back window. “So, it’s better if we actually _go_ to a gym.”

“Okay,” Alexia comments, trying to make sense of his plans. “But you _still_ have to explain what just happened?”

“Right, but first give me your telephone.”

She stares at him bewildered for a moment before drawing her phone from her pocket and unlocking it. “What do you want with it?”

“Call your friend Ms Aldwin and give the phone to me, please.”

Puzzled, Alexia does what he says, but keeps the phone for herself to avoid that Sherlock hears any jokes her friend might make.

“Hello, Alex. How are you today? Did you find out where Sherlock spend the night?”

“Oh, I’m okay. I’m calling because, for some reason, Holmes wants to talk to you,” she says and passes him the phone, mystified.

“Hello, Ms Aldwin, I need some help from you. Due to an error of judgement from my part, Ms Gavin had to create a new identity for herself without the proper preparations being taken,” he calmly explains as Alexia stares astonished. “I need you to create the digital fingerprinting for the persona we created as _quickly_ as you can.”

“Okay, but you two _owe_ me,” Amy answers in a humorous tone. “First things first, tell me the name.”

“Jean Gardner Batten.”

“Wait, this is one of the identities she have left _unused_ ,” Amy tells confused.

Sherlock looks at Alexia impressed. She notices the change on his expression and, deducing what her friend just told him, she smiles and winks at him. “Is this person, by any chance, training to become a pilot?”

“No. Flight attendant. But I can change that easily,” Amy answers pragmatically. “Why does she need to be a pilot?” Amy asks, even more confused.

“Well, as I said before, I made a mistake and might have endangered Ms Gavin’s cover.”

“So, you need _me_ to cover your ass?” Amy is back at her comical tone.

“Well, one could put it like that,” Sherlock retorts, slightly uncomfortable.

“But why a pilot?”

“Oh, that was another error of mine. I said her name was _Amelia Earhart_ , which was, of course, easily recognised.”

“Why did you do _that_?” Amy asks, laughing.

“It was the first female name that came to my mind,” he answers, noticing that now, Alexia is laughing too. “Ms Gavin was clever enough to justify my mistake, saying it was joke due to her training to become a pilot.”

“Good thing _someone_ was thinking,” Amy concludes. “I’ll activate that identity. It should be done in half an hour.”

“Good,” Sherlock retorts, a bit annoyed by her teasing. “That will protect Ms Gavin from Mrs Adler’s curiosity. Thank you, Ms Aldwin.”

“As I said before, _you_ owe me one! Can I talk to Alex now?” Sherlock returns the phone. “ _Girl_ , did he just say _Mrs Adler_?”

“Yes, I will explain to you later. Thanks for everything, Amy. Love you,” Alexia says turning off the phone.

“Do you tell her _everything_ in your life?” Sherlock asks, in a tone edging on seductive.

“Whenever I can. It can be lifesaving,” she answers pragmatically. “But _first_ you have to explain to me what the _hell_ just happened.”

“Oh look! We are there!” He cries, opening the car door, clearly avoiding the conversation.

 

 

“Boxing?” Alexia asks incredulous while Sherlock straps her gloves.

“It is something of a hobby. I’ve been doing it for a while now. I helped the owner of the club prove his associate was stealing money from him. Now I get VIP treatment.”

“That explains why they have clean clothes for you.”

“ _Very_ VIP treatment,” he says smiling. “So, have you ever boxed?”

“I have experience in different martial arts, but not boxing.”

“Okay, so the _main_ objective is to knock the opponent down, so that they cannot regain to their feet before the referee counts to ten.”

“That much I do know, Holmes,” she retorts, slightly irritated.

“Right, as we are not aiming for that today, let’s just make sure you know the rules. First, the don’ts: No kicking, head-butting, or hitting with any part of the arm other than the knuckles. Also, no hitting the back, back of the head or neck or the kidneys. No holding the ropes, no holding the opponent and no ducking.”

“Okay.”

“Now: the two _central_ features of boxing are attack and defense. And defense starts with the _stance_ : feet shoulder-width apart, right foot slightly behind the left foot…” he starts demonstrating, giving up on tying up her gloves.

“Holmes, I know what a stance is,” she says annoyed. “Move one.”

“Okay. So the punches: the first one is the jab. It’s used to test or find the range of the opponent. So, you extend your left fist straight forward,” he explains, showing her how to do it in slow motion, “rotating the fist to land with the palm down, then pull the hand back immediately after impact to defend.”

“Holmes, I know how to throw a punch,” Alexia interrupts him, very annoyed by now.

“Right, but this is _very_ important. The jab is the _most_ important punch in boxing. It can attack, defend, counter, score points, make space, and many other things,” he keeps on explaining, while finishing on her gloves.

Once he is done, she walks calmly to a punching bag and throws all four basic punches with perfection: the jab, the hook, the uppercut and the cross. After doing this for about a minute, she stops and looks at him irritated: “I told you I can throw a punch.”

Sherlock stares at her with wide eyes: “Okay, to the ring then.”

They start sparring lightly, with Sherlock always stopping to correct her position or nagging on her to defend herself right. After a few minutes, he punches her in the stomach – not badly, but enough to knock the air out of her.

“Sorry,” he says visibly worried. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she answers, stepping away from him. “Just out of breath.”

“Sorry, force of habit. You left your guard open,” he says coming closer to evaluate her state. “You _must_ remember your blocking. It’s not just your first defensive skill; it’s your first counter-offensive move.”

This angers Alexia, so she shakes off the dizziness and heads back to the centre of the ring, with Sherlock quickly following her.

“Don’t need to ketch your breath?”

“I’m fine. Let’s do this,” she answers crossly. They spar for another few minutes and at the first chance, she uses her foot to sweep him to the floor.

“I _said_ you’re not to use your legs like this!” He complains, lying on the ring.

“Sorry,” she apologises. “Force of habit. You left your guard open.”

Both of them start laughing and Alexia offers him a hand to help him sand up.

“Enough boxing for today,” Sherlock says, shaking his head. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? Fancy some chips? I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions.”

Alexia agrees and they are off of the gym and in a cab to Marylebone in less than half an hour. They walk and talk from the chips place to Baker Street, the same way they did the night they went to Amy’s cake shop. Despite the subject of him sleeping with Irene Adler the night before never being mentioned by neither Alexia nor Sherlock, they talk over many things and both are left with a feeling that their relationship grew a lot closer.


	23. Order More Vodka

The light from the fluorescent lamp flickers, giving the waiting room not only its usual cold atmosphere, but also a general feeling of restlessness. Alexia plays with the seams of her skirt. It’s a new one; she had to buy a new outfit because they gave always all of her old clothes when she _died_. But her pristine two-piece suit feels so old: the black and grey clothes most women working in service wear: elegant enough to _ornament_ the work place, yet indistinguishable enough not to call attention; polite enough not to draw their wearers into the spotlight, yet enticing enough to keep the male colleagues wondering; practical yet uncomfortable. Alexia straightened the hem of the skirt, then her back. She was nervous. It had been a week of examinations and not all of them went well. The theoretical and the marksmanship tests she completed impressively, but her physical exam was anything but perfect.

Despite of all of Max’s efforts, her stay at Baker Street might have saved her life, but it didn’t help her return to her fit condition. She had become quite a fixture in the lives of its inhabitants of 221 in the last few months. Mrs Hudson gladly accepted her as a paying tenant; _someone to help keep an eye on the boys._ Her friendship with John was as close as it had ever been – more like brother and sister. With Sherlock, her relationship was still difficult to categorise: they teased and provoked each other, then defended and charmed one another. John even started teasing Sherlock that he was acting like a little boy when he is around her, pulling her hair and annoying her, but never wanting to be far from her. Sherlock always denied it, even making it known to all that he _was,_ in fact, dating Irene Adler. These developments, although mostly reassuring, weren’t exactly preparing her to go back to work. Now she was waiting in the anteroom to the psychologist’s office for the one evaluation that would decide if she was fit enough to return to work. She was having some trouble containing her agitation. At least the _corporative uniform_ she was wearing helped her act the way she was supposed to once more.

Lost in her thoughts, Alexia starts when the door of the office opens and out comes Mycroft, followed by the psychologist, Dr Ainsworth.

“Still, Mr Holmes, I would much rather test her before she goes back to the field. What she went through was very traumatizing. Not to mention that she didn’t pass her physical exam,” the doctor protests before he notices Alexia standing in the waiting room.

“Look, Albert, she’s being involved on this case by request from Lady Smallwood _herself_. If you have a problem with that, I advise you to bring it directly to her. In the meantime, she _will_ be on her way to Margate,” Mycroft answers, turning swiftly around to face Alexia. “Ms Gavin, if you’d, please, follow me,” he orders, walking quickly towards the door.

“Yes, sir, “Alexia answers, turning to Dr Ainsworth with a startle, yet apologetic look. “Sir?” She asks, rushing after Mycroft. “Sorry to bother, but what exactly is going on? I was supposed to finish my examination and now, it seems I’m going to Kent.”

“That is exactly what is happening, Ms Gavin. You are joining my brother and Dr Watson in the investigation of a case in Broadstairs. I’m bypassing your reinstatement process. Do you have a problem with that?” He asks in a menacing voice, turning to look at her.

“No, sir. I was expecting a desk job; training at the most. A field job is excellent,” she tells him with a smile.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. You will be employed in training, once you return,” He says, heading quickly for the elevator. “But for now, you will be heading to Kent. There is a car waiting downstairs for you,” he adds as the doors to the elevator open.

“But sir,” Alexia cries before going inside. “Why?”

“Because my brother has developed an _annoying_ variety of sentimentality in the last few years, dear Ms Gavin,” Mycroft explains, turning back to face her. “He is certainly capable of solving this case on his own. He wouldn’t _even_ need Doctor Watson’s help, but he seems to enjoy the presence of others. So...” Alexia stared at her hurting feet, trying futilely to hide her blushing face. Mycroft stares at her irked. “Go!” He adds as the doors close.

She uses the short elevator trip to enumerate in her mind what she should pack. Customarily, she would keep a packed duffel bag ready to go, but since she had to rebuy everything on her wardrobe, she hadn’t had the time to do that. Out of the building, but still thinking about packing, she looks up and down the street for the usual black limousine, without finding anything. Intrigued, she turns around, checking for something out of ordinary, then fixes her eyes on the other side of the road. Still looking for the right kind of car, she hears a familiar voice:

“Hey, pretty lady. Wanna go for a test drive?”

Startled, she finally notices a black Land Rover, parked right in front of the building. John is joyfully smiling at her from the passenger seat; Sherlock sits behind the wheel. She struts towards them, slowly pops her head in the open window, so that her cleavage is visible and, in a suggestive voice, says: “Hey, sugar, you lookin' for a date?”

Alexia and John erupt in laughter, while Sherlock glares at them, bewildered. She opens the back door and joins them, still laughing.

“So, we are going to some town in Kent?” She says, fastening her seat belt.

“Broadstairs, to be exact,” Sherlock answers, driving off. “A barrister was shot and the police asked for my help.”

“And what for do you need _me_?” She asks, catching his eyes staring at her on the rear view mirror.

“I believe Jonathan Kleinmann’s gang is behind it. And you are my Kleinmann specialist, so I need you to come along.”

“Oh, you need me. Do you?” She asks, smiling at his reflection. Sherlock shakes his head while John chuckles amused, but Alexia notices the detective has a little smile on his face. “So, how much time do I have to pack my things?”

“No need for that. I’ve already packed for you!” Sherlock answers indifferently.

“You’ve packed my things?” She asks stunned.

“Don’t worry. I picked items based on what you _usually_ wear and I added enough undergarments for the time I believe will be necessary for solving the case.”

John turns around to look at Alexia’s shocked face. “Don’t worry, Alex. I’m pretty sure he’s been through your undies before,” he says, laughing at the horror in her eyes.

Alexia’s astonishment subsides into a grin. It shouldn’t be a surprise for her that living with Sherlock Holmes would involve his searching through her belongings; especially when she had been hiding information from him. It was obvious. However she was _shocked_ , not angry. Her feelings towards the detective kept her from getting mad at him. They had grown even stronger in the weeks since she told them about her past. So much so, she hadn’t been sure how to act around him anymore. Particularly because she couldn’t understand Sherlock’s behaviour: he constantly flirted with her – like right now, with the smiling in the mirror - despite declaring to be in a relationship with Irene Adler. Alexia even told John how Sherlock’s association with _The Woman_ upset her, to which the doctor responded, first with laughter, than with sympathy. Alexia spends the two-hour drive to the coast brooding about these subjects, barely noticing that, all the time, Sherlock is keeping an eye on over the rear view mirror.

 

 

Sitting on opposite sides of a table on the deck of the hotel, overseeing the car park and the Botany Bay, Sherlock explains the case in more detail to Alexia, while John picks up their lunch.

“So, why do you think Kleinmann has anything to do with the death of this.. What was his name again?”

“Douglas Jones,” Sherlock answers, matter of fact. “He used to represent one of Kleinmann’s deputies but, seemingly, fell out with him. Apparently, this aide, a Mr Filip Kovač, supposedly took over the British branch of Kleinmann’s enterprises and is running things from here.”

“Sounds like you solve the case already,” she smiles at him in the same way he did in the car.

“Arresting Mr Kovač for this murder would be repeating the same mistakes we made with Kleinmann: he goes to jail, but his work continues undeterred,” he corrects her, ignoring the smile.

“Kleinmann is still not talking?”

“He pleaded guilty on the terror charges, but _will not_ talk about any other accusation,” he replies.

“The sentence for a terror offence is at the most six years. He will be out to run his business in no time,” she comments dejectedly.

“Exactly,” Sherlock adds, raising his eyes to meet hers. “And on the meantime, his assistants keep his business up and running as if it were a hydra. When one gets arrested, two others take over,” he explains, still admiring her.

Alexia looks at the ocean, thoughtfully. “But why here?”

“I guess due to the proximity with continental Europe,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “In beach resorts like this, the police are less prepared to deal with fire arms smugglers than in port cities like Dover or Hull. “

“I see,” Alexia exclaims as John arrives with three pints.

“Did you tell her about the connection to her case?” John asks Sherlock.

“What?” Alexia asks, almost choking on her beer.

“No,” Sherlock answers, frowning at John. “I was _getting_ there.”

“What does he mean; a connection to my case?”

“Well,” Sherlock starts, taking a sip of his beer and straitening up on the other side of the table. “The calibre of the bullets they found on Mr Jones’ body was 7.62.”

“But AK 47 is a very widely used weapon,” she says dismissive.

“I don’t mean a Kalaschnikow,” Sherlock adds.

“Oh! You think because Kovač is a _Serbian_ name, a Zastava M91 was used?” She asks, meeting his eyes avidly. He nods; the smile back on his lips. “That’s clever!” She replies in a flirty tone.

John stares at both of them, incredulous. The only time he’s seen Sherlock act like this in front of a woman was with _The_ Woman. And even though his friend was now sort of _dating_ Irene Adler, John couldn’t help feeling happy about the prospect of Alexia replacing the dominatrix. Still, the couple’s inability to be honest with each other about their feelings was annoying. Shaking his head and snorting, he had to interrupt their flirtation: “If the two of you could stop messing around for just a second, we could go on with the case. The 7.62 bullets were also used to kill _your_ shooter, Alex.”

“Why did you bring me here, if you think Kleinmann’s group was involved on the attempt to kill me?” She asks, with a scowl.

“I don’t. I suspect they _provided_ the weapons,” Sherlock answers defensively; his eyes searching to re-establish the connection with hers. “I would never _deliberately_ put you in danger. I want to _stop_ this gang and I believe _you_ are the most capable person to deal with them. That is the reason why I wanted you here by my side,” he explains in a candid tone.

Alexia feels like she has a million butterflies in her stomach, but she cannot tell if her heart is beating fast because of the possibility of coming face to face with the people responsible for her latest ordeal, or because of Sherlock intense gaze and considerate words. “And how do you plan to _stop_ Kleinmann’s organization?”

“Well,” Sherlock starts going back to his usual know-it-all mode. “Our best chance is to catch them in the act: find out how they are working and have them arrested while they are smuggling weapons into Britain.”

“And for that, we need your knowledge of the organization,” John completes just as a waitress brings their lunch.

Alexia eats in silence, completely absorbed by her thoughts, while the other two exchange nervous glances over their dishes. Once she is finished, she gazes inquisitively across the table towards the two: “Aren’t you two hungry? We will need to get going if we want this job done,” she says after a deep breath.

 

 

Sherlock stops the car on the road close to the Margate Wastewater Pumping Station, turns the lights off and waits until his eyes adjust to the darkness. On a clear day, one can see as far as France, but this is a moonless night, so the only lights visible are those of the ships and fishing boats along the channel.

“Shall we?” He asks, turning to grab a pair of binoculars on the back seat.

“Right,” Alexia answers, zipping up her hoodie. “I wish you had packed a warmer jacket for me, though,” she adds, opening the door and jumping out of the car. While she waits for Sherlock to pick up his things from the boot, she browses the beach under the cliff with her binoculars for any movement. She flinches as Sherlock puts his coat over her shoulders.

“So you don’t get cold.” He says, swiftly moving on.

“Aren’t _you_ going to get cold?” She asks, putting the coat on, one sleeve at time.

“I’ll be fine,” he retorts, walking ahead. “There is a path down to the beach over there.”

“Okay, but don’t you think we can spot boats better from up here?” She asks, speeding up after him.

“I want to check if there are any marks on the send.”

After walking most of the Botany Bay beach and part of the Palm Bay one in silence, Sherlock indicates they should return to the car. Once sitting inside, Alexia notices his shaking.

“I knew you were cold, Holmes!” She cries, with a burst of movement to take off his coat.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Stop playing the _tough_ guy and just take your coat back,” she says, placing the coat over his shoulders. “Now, turn the engine on and the heating high. You could get hypothermia on a night like this,” she scolds him as he complies.

“One of us would have gotten it, anyway.”

“I should have taken John’s jacket. He didn’t need it inside the hotel,” she says

“Well, John was probably on his pyjamas while reading to Rosie over the internet,” he explains awkwardly, while she takes his hands on hers.

“Your hands are blocks of ice!” She shouts, rubbing her hands on his and blowing warm breath into them. Both of them fall silent until they lock eyes. “I guess if you drive, the heating system will work faster,” Alexia says, blushing and letting go of his hands.

“Right,” Sherlock answers, turning the car on and silently driving away.

 

 

All three spend the next day investigating around town and in the evening, they go out to a pub nearby to have dinner and sound out the locals for any information. When they get back to the hotel, they find Irene Adler, waiting in the lobby.

“There you are, darling! I’ve been waiting for you for _hours_ now,” she says, rushing to kiss an astonished Sherlock in the lips.

“What are you doing here, Irene?” He asks in a low, almost threating, tone.

“I have to go out of the country again and I couldn’t do it without seeing you,” she says, inappropriately caressing his ass.

“How did you get here? I didn’t _tell_ you where I was,” he asks, gently pushing her away from him.

“You’re _not_ the only one who can make deductions, Sherlock Holmes,” she explains, twirling away from him. “I checked the comments session on your website and found DCI Blanchard’s little entry. Not so difficult to follow, actually,” she says, taking note of Alexia and John for the first time. “Just doesn’t explain the need for a training pilot to be present at your crime solving operation.”

“Oh, I’m here for the exact same reason as _you_ , Ms Adler,” Alexia says, while Sherlock and John look at each other confused. “To spend some time with my boyfriend,” she adds, pushing her hand into the back pocket of John’s jeans. "Isn't it right, Babe?" She says, kissing him on the ear.

"Of course," the doctor answers, taking pleasure on seeing Sherlock's face contort.

"And now that Sherlock has company, John and I can _finally_ go on that romantic walk on the beach we've been talking about since London."

"Right, Babe," he answers, putting his hand around her shoulder. "I'm sorry you were all alone while we had to work on this case all day. I'll make it up to you," he says, caressing her hair. "Sherlock, can I have the car keys?"

The detective looks almost angry at both of them. "I thought you were going to _walk_ on the beach," he says, throwing the keys.

"I have to find the _right_ beach first, you know. One without anyone around in case we decide to do something illicit," he says, winking at his friend. "I wish the two of you a good night, then," he adds, turning around and leading Alexia out of the hotel by the hand.

 

 

Alexia and John spend the next two hours of searching the nearby beaches for smugglers. They use the time to vent their frustrations and fears about Sherlock's relationship, and decide to warn Mycroft of Irene's presence and her probable monitoring his movements. Once in the hotel, they part ways satisfied with their decision, but after less than half an hour, Alexia knocks on the doctor's door, holding a bottle of vodka.

"Can I stay here with you? The happy couple is putting quite a show right next door to me and it doesn't seems like they will stop any time soon," she explains disheartened.

"Of course, Babe," John says, petting her head whilst pulling her inside the room. "Are they having _a lot_ of fun in there?" He asks, chuckling.

"You should be glad the room with the best internet connection was on the other side of the building," she says, opening up the vodka bottle, filling up two glasses and giving John one. "Did you reach Mr Holmes?"

"No, but I left a message. He will call sometime in the morning," he explains, gazing at the glass. "Sherlock will be mad we called his brother."

"He is putting not only the _investigation_ in danger, but _me_ as well. The longer that woman hangs around, the higher the possibility that she might recognise me... We did the right thing."

"To the right thing!" John exclaims, raising his glass.

"To the right thing!"

The night goes by, and so does the vodka bottle. When both of them are already quite drunk, Alexia gathers the nerve to tell him more about her past:

“John, remember that day I told you and Sherlock about my past?” He nods. “Well. There is more.” He looks up to her, a bit unsteady from the drinking. “I wanted to tell you, but it all went _really_ wrong that time. And I never found the right moment since then.”

“And you think _now_ it’s a good moment?” He laughs, sitting on the floor.

“It’s a moment. As good as any,” she says, sitting down next to him. “And there is a chance, if I get you _drunk_ enough, you’ll forget everything,” she laughs off.

“You sound like you killed someone,” John jokes.

She considers for a second, counting on her fingers. “Well,” she says, blushing. “That is not what I want to talk about.” She pours them another shot of vodka. John takes his glass, they clink them and Alexia prepares to start: “You know how I told you I went to work as a secretary to Lady Smallwood out of loyalty?” John nods. “Well, it _was_ out of loyalty but not just towards Lady Smallwood.” She breathes in, trying to find the words. “I did it because _your wife_ asked me to,” she says, ducking her head as if expecting him to hit her.

John stares at her for a moment, then pours himself another shot and, after gulping it down, answers: “What?”

She takes another deep breath and starts explaining: “When Amy and I contacted Ros, I mean Mary, she told us that our finding her made her afraid others could do the same. So she made both Amy and I _promise_ we would look after her family (meaning you, Rosie and all her friends from Baker Street) should anything ever happen to her,” she explains, avoiding any eye contact. “We promised because that is what family does for each other. I never believed it would be _necessary_ So, Amy stayed in London, while I went back to work in America.” Both of them set in silence, Alexia intently examining the contents of her glass. “All was well until I got that call from Amy, telling about the Norbury incident. She didn’t even have to _ask_ me to come back to England,” Alexia gulps down the vodka and takes a deep breath. “I informed both Lady Smallwood and Mycroft of Mary’s request and, together, we came up with the Clara Thaw identity. That way, I could _still_ work for the service while keeping an eye on you.”

John remains silent. He grabs the bottle, empties it into his glass and stands up, staggering. Looking at the glass, he asks: “What do you _mean_ ; you kept an eye on me?” His voice is calm, but she can feel the anger building up.

“For starters, I sent Holmes that DVD with instructions.”

He walks to the table with the tea cattle und puts down the full glass. Alexia can see he is struggling to keep tears away. “Why didn’t you just come up to us and introduced yourself? It would have been easier.”

“John,” she calls, standing up with difficulty. “Remember the state you were in back then? Do you think you would have reacted _well_ if I had just showed up at your door step, claiming to be Mary’s friend?”

He walks towards the window, trying to make sense of what she is saying. “I still don’t understand how you’ve been looking after us?”

“Well, it hasn’t been exactly _easy_ , I’ll tell you. Your work with Holmes is _by nature_ dangerous. So we tried to control the environment, when necessary: screen out the cases that posed _excessive_ danger for you – Amy was good at that; have the police prepared, in case things got out of hand. Such things,” she explains to an ever more astonished John.

“And where _were_ you when the whole Sherrinford hell broke loose?” He asks, coming back from the window and sitting on the bed.

“That only happened because of Mr Holmes, actually,” Alexia justifies, sitting down next to him. “He _never_ actually admitted the existence of his sister to anyone but Lady Smallwood. _And_ he actually sent me out of the country, once you and Sherlock discovered about Euros. I was in Georgia, trying to recover the remains of Alex and Gabriel,” she explains, lowering her eyes. “You know, Mary’s partners in A.G.R.A.”

“Uh hum,” John takes notice. After a moment’s contemplation, he adds angrily: “So, you’re supposed to take _care_ of us, but when we were really in danger, you were out of the country?”

“That’s not fair, John. The moment Amy noticed you were _missing_ , she called me and I came back. I left everything I was doing.”

John shakes his head in response. “Euros almost killed me!”

“Look, we did _everything_ we could to find you out, but we didn’t even know Euros existed. When Lady Smallwood finally told us about Sherrinford, we went ballistic trying to gain back control of their network. It took a long time to get permission to send in the Special Forces as well, but we did it,” she says, purposely looking him in the eyes. “And they got there in the _nick_ of time to save all of you.” She paused for a couple of seconds, then, walking to the window, continued: “It was a _horrible_ day for the three of you, but it was an _awful_ day for us too.”

“You were the ones who got the Special Forces there, not Mycroft?”

“Yes. They first found Mycroft, who guided them to Sherlock and you. Amy and I were in contact with them all the time.”

John stares at her from the bed. Taking a deep breath, he stands up, takes his glass and pours half of the remaining vodka into hers. “To Mary!” He says, raising both glasses.

Alexia smiles and walks to him. “To Mary!” She answers, taking her glass. Examining the empty bottle, she adds: “I guess we should order more vodka!”

 


	24. Her Own Flat

When John opens the door, he can’t help but laugh at Sherlock’s confused expression.

“What are you doing here? Where is Alexia?” Sherlock asks, avidly examining the room for the agent.

“She’s in my room,” John answers, struggling to keep hold of a pair of jeans, a bra and shoes.

“How did _that_ happen?” Sherlock asks irritably, with a twinge of jealousy.

“You and your _girlfriend_ happened,” John retorts, picking up Alexia’s room keys, pushing Sherlock out and closing the door behind them. “Apparently, you two were _so_ loud last night; Alexia couldn’t sleep. So she knocked on my door with a bottle of vodka,” he tells proudly, walking back to his room.

“That explains your hangover,” Sherlock retorts, leading John to roll his eyes. “I _actually_ wanted to apologise to her for all the noise last night. For some reason, Irene became _very_ loud once she found Alexia’s room was next door,” Sherlock explains puzzled.

“Of course she did,” John retorts laughing. They walk down a flight of stairs in silence, before the doctor asks: “Where is she, by the way?”

“I managed to send her back to London. I’m afraid Irene might figure out who Alexia _is_ if she spends too much time around her,” Sherlock explains. “She might be a lunatic, but she is not dumb.”

John stops and stares at him: “Explain again _why_ you are dating her? You don’t seem very keen on her anyway.”

Sherlock stops and sighs. “I need to make sure Alexia is protected.”

John laughs sardonically: “Why do you think Alexia needs your protection? And since when do you care than much about her wellbeing anyway,” he teases.

“I don’t know. She saved _my_ life, I saved _her_ life. I don’t want her to be hurt again.”

“Why don’t you just accept that you have feelings for Alex and dump Irene once and for all?”

“John, if it were that simple,” Sherlock answers with another sigh.

This time, it’s John who looks puzzled. “At least you’re not _denying_ it anymore. That’s an improvement,” he says more to himself than to his friend. “You better not hurt her, Sherlock,” he warns before he opens the door to his room. “She is a keeper, that one.”

 

 

When the three of them reach the breakfast room, it is empty. Only Mycroft is dramatically sitting at a table set in the middle of room.

“What are you doing here, brother?” Sherlock asks irritated. “This is not your case.”

“I was summoned to deal with your unhelpful behaviour, little brother.”

“ _What_ behaviour?” Sherlock asks indignant. “ _Which_ one of you is responsible for this?” He adds, turning to John and Alexia.

“It was a _joint_ decision,” Alexia answers, stepping closer to John.

“They were afraid you having your girlfriend around might _endanger_ this operation,” Mycroft calmly explains.

“If they had a problem with my _private_ life, they should have talked to _me_ ; not called my brother.”

“Do you call what you two did last night _private_?” Alexia asks angrily, her head pounding. Sherlock freezes at the sight of her resentment.

“Besides, what was she _doing_ here anyway?” John asks after a moment. “You know she handles with sensitive information; it’s her business. She can’t be trusted.”

“Not to mention, the extra peril you’re putting Alexia in just by keeping Mrs Adler close to her,” Mycroft adds coolly.

“ _You_ told me to text her,” Sherlock wails at John. “High Wycombe, remember?”

“You told him to text her?” Mycroft and Alexia ask in unison.

“That was _before_ , when _you_ almost died from drug consumption and _I_ had just lost my wife,” John answers angrily. “Things are _better_ now. You have other _options_ ,” He adds, his voice back to a calmer tone. “ _Better_ options,” he says looking at Alexia, who looks a bit green.

“Apart from that, I didn’t _jeopardize_ anything. I didn’t _invite_ Irene here. She came uninvited,” Sherlock explains outraged.

“And don’t you find that _suspicious_?” John retorts. “How did she _find_ you all the way here” You didn’t _tell_ her where you were going, did you?”

“Of course _not_. That is the reason why I _handled_ her the way I did last night,” Sherlock explains, causing Alexia to scoff. “I _had_ to get her to go away on her own without raising suspicions,” he says, clearly addressing Alexia, who turns towards the windows not to face him.

“Where is the lady now?” Mycroft finally intervenes. Sherlock explains all that he already told John.

While the three men continue discussing, Alexia walks to the window. She is trying to control her feelings but the effects of her hangover are making it more difficult. Seeing – or yet hearing – Sherlock and Irene together had made it clear to her that she felt something for the detective. It also showed her he didn’t seem to share those feelings, at least not the same way. He seemed to be in love with the way she admires him, but his feelings for Adler were still too strong. Alexia wonders if she ever stood a chance against what they had. Feeling sick to her stomach, she goes back to the others:

“Is it okay if I go work in my room? I don’t feel so well.”

All three fall silent, looking worried.

“Go,” Mycroft says complacently, with a wave of his hand. “You’re not of any help right now _anyway_.”

John stands up to accompany her, but she stops him: “It’s okay, John. Stay and work. I’ll be alright.”

“Just don't forget to hydrate. I’ll check on you soon.”

She staggers back to her room and, feeling overwhelmed by the mere memories of last night’s echoes, she lays down on the bed and tries not to cry. Failing promptly, she falls asleep weeping, wondering why she is feeling the way she does.

She wakes up with a knock at door. Weak and dizzy, she opens it to find Sherlock standing outside, with a bottle of isotonic drink in his hands.

“Room service,” he says, trying to sound charming. “John sent me. He was worried about you. We _all_ were.”

“I’m fine,” she interrupts him coolly.

“You don’t _look_ very fine to me,” he says jokingly. She stands, holding herself straight by the doorframe, scowling at him. “Look, I meant to apologise to you before. Last night got out of hand and I am _terribly_ sorry if I caused you any trouble.”

“Hey, as you said before, it’s your _private_ life. It has _nothing_ to do with me,” she says, trying to hide her pain under anger.

“Okay,” Sherlock says disappointed. “John said you should drink this,” he adds, passing her the bottle.

“Will do. Thanks,” she says, avoiding his eyes. But when she reaches for the bottle, the lights go dark and her legs give up.

Sherlock manages to support her. “Hey! Did you eat _anything_ at all today?” He asks, keeping a supporting hand on her back.

“Erm... I guess I didn’t,” she says, trying to get herself together.

“You need to lie down,” he says, opening the door behind her. “I’ll call the others and John can keep an eye on you while we work. Can you walk?" He asks, sweeping her sweaty hair away from her forehead. She nods, but her legs are still unable to move on their own. "That’s a _no_. Put your arms around my neck. I’ll carry you,” he says, lifting her up to his arms. “We will order some real room service. You will feel better in no time.”

Sherlock lays her carefully in the bed and swipes the hair off her face while he calls John on his phone.

“You'll be alright, Alex. You’re probably just hypoglycaemic,” he says to her, trying to calm both of them.

His voice was soothing and the cool touch of his hands made her feel better, but she could see in his eyes that he was worried. “I’m okay, Holmes. Don’t worry,” she says reaching for his hand. The two stare at each other’s eyes until a knock on the door announces John’s arrival.

In a couple of minutes, the silence they were surrounded by is substituted by the rustle and bustle of John’s orders as well as Mycroft’s annoyed setting up of his working station in the corner desk. Once the food arrives and the doctor is busy, intently making sure Alexia eats and drinks, Sherlock joins his brother working on the case. After ten minutes of relative calm, the sound of an orgasmic female sigh makes all of them start.

“Sorry,” Sherlock apologises while the other three stare at him. After a couple of minutes, the sound is repeated, causing both Alexia and John, sitting on the bed, to roll their eyes at each other.

“ _What_ is that aggravating sound?” Mycroft asks.

“It’s just Irene sending me text messages,” Sherlock explains. “She will stop soon.”

They go back to work and after a few minutes, John joins them, so that Alexia can sleep. The three work all evening but get nowhere, especially because Sherlock keeps receiving messages from Irene.

“Either turn it off or get out of here,” John says on a low, but threatening voice once Sherlock’s phone moans once again. “You’re going to wake up Alex.”

“I’ll turn it off,” Sherlock whispers, looking towards the bed. “She is distracting me too much.”

“Yes, but not _Mrs Adler_ is, dear brother,” Mycroft retorts in a mix of exasperation and mockery. The other two stare at him suspiciously. “Every time your phone makes a noise, you look at Ms Gavin. And not only to be sure she is still asleep, like right now. You have been doing this all evening. So you are _clearly_ interested on her reactions.” Sherlock snorts, dismissing his brother’s comments, while John laughs noiselessly. “There _is_ a woman occupying your thoughts, brother mine. But it is not your alleged _girlfriend_.”

Before Sherlock can say anything in return, the sound of an orgasmic female sigh rings out from the phone in his hand, causing Alexia to stir in her sleep.

“That’s it. We are getting out of here,” John orders, swiftly closing his laptop and standing up. “Doctor’s orders! You didn’t let her sleep last night; this evening she _really_ needs to rest. Come on, you two. Pack up!”

“But what if she gets sick again?” Sherlock complains, reluctantly packing his computer.

“She won’t,” John proclaims. “But I’ll leave a note, saying we are right next door if she needs anything. Okay?”

After carefully gathering all papers they spent the night spreading around the room, they head out to the hall. Sherlock takes a long, anxious look at Alexia before he closes the door behind him.

 

 

When Sherlock raises his eyes from his computer screen, he sees that Mycroft has fallen asleep on the sofa. John has been snoring on the bed for some hours now, and his own eyes are feeling heavy. He stretches his back on his chair, then stands up and walks towards the window. The day was so peculiar, he forgot his plan to survey the shore for any smuggling activity during the night. Noticing the first lights of dawn approaching, he grabs his binoculars from the table and scans the area right in front of the hotel. With a start, he notices a cloaked figure walking down the path to the beach.

“What the hell is she doing?” He murmurs after a second look and, turning around, he puts on his coat and walks out. He finds Alexia standing on a trunk on the sand, balancing herself on one foot against the rising sun.

“What in the _world_ are you doing? I thought you were _sick_ ,” he says, picking up the blanket lying on the floor.

“I was feeling better, so I came down to check for smugglers,” she says, raising both her arms and one foot. “Found some tire marks on the send over _there_ ,” she says, indicating a point close to some rocks. “One set is deeper than the other. So, somebody was either carrying something heavy _towards_ or _away_ from the sea. The police will probably find out what _sort_ of vehicle if they analyse the sort of tires.”

“Ingenious,” He says, looking at the rocks. “But that was not what I meant. I meant _this_ ,” he says pointing at her place on the post. “What are you trying to do? Fall?”

“Of course not. I’m attempting a _crane kick_ ,” she explains without looking at him. “You know, from The Karate Kid,” she continues, as he doesn’t react at all.

“I have _no_ idea what you are talking about.”

“You don’t know The Karate Kid?” She asks, putting her foot back to look at him in indignation. “What kind of _childhood_ did you have?”

“A non- _conventional_ one,” he says in an apological tone.

“Come on! I was raised by a misogynist _psychopath_ , who _told_ me martial arts was not a thing righteous girls did, and I _still_ watched it,” she says, still outraged. Sherlock only shrugs in response. “It’s a film about a boy who learns Karate to deal with some bullies.”

“And I’m guessing the _crane kick_ is something featured in said movie?”

“Yes, it’s how he beats his opponent in a _big_ Karate tournament in the end,” she answers in a mock condescending tone. “Now, are you ready?” She asks, standing once again on her right foot.

“Are _you_?” Sherlock asks, edging closer to her, in case she falls.

“Here we go!” She says and takes a deep breath. In a swift movement, she kicks the air with her right foot (quite high in fact), but fails to replace it with her left foot and falls. Sherlock catches her, but they both end up falling down in the send.

“Are you okay?” He asks, holding her body on top of his. She nods, unable to stop laughing. “I cannot _in any way_ imagine that move defeating an opponent on a tournament,” he adds, laughing himself.

“It would, if I had done it properly,” she retorts, but stops laughing when she notices the proximity of their bodies. She can smell his breath and is just a couple of inches away from kissing him. Sherlock is also affected by this proximity and when he reaches in to kiss her, Irene’s infamous orgasmic ringtone interrupts them. They remain in this position for a couple of seconds, unable to decide what to do, until Alexia moves away.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore,” she says, shaking the sand off her clothes as she stands up.

“Alexia, wait,” Sherlock protests, sitting up. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t, Holmes,” she adds, taking the blanket from his hands. “Are you planning to _continue_ going out with Irene Adler?”

“I _have_ to.”

“Then I can’t _do_ this anymore. You can’t have a girlfriend and keep on _flirting_ with me like this.”

“You don’t _understand_ , Alexia,” he adds, looking at the rising sun.

“No, I don’t, Sherlock,” she says, turning around and walking away, leaving him alone on the beach.

 

 

In the hotel car park, Alexia meets John, who is surprised to see her out of bed. “Alex, what are you doing here?”

“I’m going home, John. I can’t stand your friend anymore,” she says, pointing towards the beach.

“What did Sherlock do now?” John asks, looking downcast towards the beach.

“I don’t understand what he wants, John. I _really_ don’t,” she retorts in a desperate tone, walking away from him towards the hotel.

“Remember that he is practically a virgin when it comes to interpersonal relationships,” he shouts after her. “ _Especially_ when women are concerned,” but she is already out of earshot.

“What did this _idiot_ do this time?” John mutters to himself as he follows the path to the beach. He finds his friend sitting in the sand, staring at the sunrise. “I _told_ you not to hurt her, didn’t I?” John shouts, coming slowly closer. “Sherlock, you _had_ to scare her off, hadn’t you?” He adds, looking down on the detective. “What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Sherlock answers truly upset. “My telephone rang and she got really mad.”

“Who _calls_ you at _this_ time of the morning? Wait. Did your phone _ring_ or did Irene send you another _message_?”

Sherlock sighs: “The second.”

John snorts sardonically. “And what were you two doing here before you got the message?”

Sherlock changes his position in the sand, uncomfortable: “Nothing really: She was showing me some Karate kick from a film.”

“I understand that that ring tone is irritating, but that should not be enough to piss her off like _that_ ,” John adds, looking bewildered.

“Well, something else did happen just before I got the message,” Sherlock says timidly.

John sighs and sits down next to him: “What did you do?”

“After she attempted this _crane kick_ thing, she fell down,” he says, gathering courage to continue. “And we almost kissed,” he completes, in a faint voice.

“And _that’s_ when your phoned moaned?” Sherlock nods. “This is not good, Sherlock,” John says, watching his friend. “You do like Alexia, don’t you?”

“I feel _something_ for her that I never felt for any other woman in my life.”

“Not even Irene?”

“Not even Irene.”

“Then _why_ are you still dating that crazy, dangerous woman?”

“Because I _need_ to protect Alexia.”

“By keeping her _psycho father's wife_ around her _all_ the time?”

“I need to make _sure_ Irene doesn’t find out who Alexia really is.”

“That only makes sense _inside_ your head, Sherlock.”

“I have to _protect_ her, John.”

“Oh, you two have a _fixation_ with protecting people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know how last night we drank a lot and we talked a lot…” Sherlock nods. “Well, she told me a part of her story she didn’t have the nerve to tell us before.” John tells his friend all Alexia told him the previous night, leaving Sherlock visibly shaken.

“I gotta go talk to her,” Sherlock says, standing up. “Where did she go?”

“Into the hotel.”

Both of them run up the path to the hotel, but once they arrive, they meet Mycroft on the hall.

“Where _were_ the two of you? I’ve been looking _everywhere_.” He says, holding his brother by the shoulder. “The police will be there is a few minutes to take care of the tire marks on the sand, and I need _all_ of your help, now that we are one man short. One of you will have to go to the beach and make sure those idiots a) don't destroy the evidence, and b) send it all as _quick_ as possible to the lab in Whitehall. The other one needs to come with me, check for newly opened woodwork hops in the area. Ms Gavin remembered that Kovač’s family had a furniture shop back in Serbia. She thinks it might be a good camouflage for a smuggling business.”

John and Sherlock exchange confused looks. “What are you _talking_ about, Mycroft?” Sherlock barks at his brother.

“I’m talking about the information Ms Gavin brought up this morning,” the elder brother explains annoyed. “It might sound very feeble, but right now, it's the only actual line of investigation we have.”

“Where is she?” Sherlock asks, nervous.

“Probably at the station. She said she had an urgent personal matter to deal in London," Mycroft explains confused. “I thought she already talked to you...”

“John, car keys?” Sherlock interrupts his brother, now despairing.

“Go. Quick,” John cries, throwing him the keys.

Sherlock runs out of the hotel, leaving his friend to deal with his infuriated brother alone. He drives like a madman, but when he reaches the station, the platform is empty. He checks the train’s next stops: Six minutes until Margate, twenty five until Canterbury. He decides to risk it and try to intercept the train in Canterbury, but when he starts the car, his phone rings.

“Sherlock, where the _hell_ are you?” Mycroft shouts on the other side. “We are _about_ to bust Kleinmann's gang and you go _missing_.”

“I’m trying to catch Ms Gavin.”

“Why? She did a _good_ job with the tips this morning, but it is, in fact, _better_ if she is not around when we make the arrests.” Sherlock remains silent. “Would you, _please_ , get back here, and help us!”

Sherlock sighs and looks at the car’s watch. He would have to fly to be able to reach Canterbury on time. Defeated, he backs up the car: “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

 

 

In the evening, after both police and journalists are gone, Sherlock, Mycroft and John are sitting at a table on the deck outside the hotel, waiting for Mycroft’s car to arrive before they all drive back to London. Sherlock has been more sombre than usual since his return from the station. He is quietly playing with his glass, while John excitedly discusses the details of the arrests with an increasingly annoyed Mycroft. Gathering confidence, Sherlock finally asks:

“Is it true that she was supposed to protect us?”

The others fall absolutely silent until Mycroft understands what his brother is talking about.

“Not only true, that’s what she has been doing over the last few years,” he explains in an unusually patient voice.

“And you helped her`” John intervenes.

“I was not incredibly happy about giving up one of my least _reckless_ field agents, but I was outnumbered.”

“Lady Smallwood _agreed_ to the _Thaw_ scheme?” Sherlock asks meditative.

“She _suggested_ it.” Mycroft reveals. “Why the sudden interest?”

As Sherlock remains silent, John decides to answer: “She told us about it two nights ago and Sherlock thinks that is the reason why she got so upset.”

“I sure hope it isn’t. If anyone should be upset because of that _absurd_ story, it should be _you_ , doctor. And you don’t seem to have a problem with that,” Mycroft comments, standing up as his car stops in front of their table. “I’m just happy this secret keeping _nonsense_ is over,” he adds, jumping inside the car without saying goodbye.

“Says the man who hid his sister from his family for over twenty years,” John mutters, watching t car drive away.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock announces, still quite dejected. “We have a long way ahead of us.”

 

 

When they finally arrive in Baker Street, in the middle of the night, Mrs Hudson is in a muddle: Alexia had come up in the morning, picked up all of her things and went away.

“She didn’t even explain why, just said she _had_ to go,” the landlady complains. “All she left is a note, thanking _all_ of us for all we did for her and for the great time she had,” she adds, showing them the paper.

“Mrs Hudson, other tenants have come and gone and you didn’t have a problem with it,” Sherlock points out irritated. “Even _John_ here left without much ado. Why is this one such a problem? She only stayed a couple of months.”

“Don’t mind him, Mrs Hudson. He is in a bad mood,” John justifies his friend’s behaviour.

“It was nice to have another woman around to help me deal with you,” Mrs Hudson adds mournfully.

The next day, Mycroft confirms Alexia has gone back to the service on a teaching position and has moved to her own flat.

 


	25. Tranquilize Her

A month or so after the case in Kent, Lady Smallwood's birthday party becomes a matter of debate at 221b. For some reason he cannot understand, Sherlock and John are invited. Initially, the detective decides not to go, but his brother intervenes, sustaining it would be an affront to the Lady to miss it. John also advises him to go, considering all that the lady had done for him already. Even Irene, once she hears about it, demands to accompany him to it.

“If Sherlock is going to one of the _most important_ society events of the year, it’s only logical that he takes his girlfriend,” she claims indignantly.

Outnumbered, Sherlock agrees to go. Smallwood, however, is not very keen on inviting the dominatrix, but ends up allowing her to come. The detective himself is not so happy about this. His relationship with Irene has become almost unbearable since their trip to Kent, with both of them aware that they are only together to monitor each other’s movements. Instead of enjoying her company, he seems to spend a lot of his time preoccupying about Alexia. He takes every opportunity to ask John about her. The doctor keeps constant contact with the agent, meeting her for Amy’s cake at least once a week. They even settle to go together to Smallwood’s party, so Alexia can go to the event she organised without blowing her cover.

 

 

In the evening of the party, Irene sends a town car so Sherlock can _pick her up_.

“That’s the proper way!” She says.  Once they arrive at the venue, she drifts away to schmooze with interesting (important) people. True to her form, she behaves ghastly towards the ones who can’t bring her any benefit. Sherlock sits at the bar, sulking and making deductions about the guests – a great past time. Thus entertained, he starts when someone taps him on his shoulder.

“You look like you’re having fun,” John says with a friendly smile. “A beer and a whiskey sour, please,” he adds to the bartender.

“You know me! _Always_ the life of the party,” Sherlock retorts sardonically.

“Where is your date?”

“Flattering the rich and important somewhere. I don’t know,” Sherlock answers dejected. “Where is yours?”

“I left her talking to Lady Smallwood in the back,” John explains, watching with a smile as his friend contorts himself, searching. “Your brother, on the other hand, seems to think the party is for his benefit. The belle of ball. Look!” He adds, pointing to a group of people to their right.

“The belle of the ball,” Sherlock replies slowly, completely spellbound at the sight of Alexia, talking and laughing with Amy and Max at the other end of the room.

“She looks good, doesn’t she?” John asks.

“What?” Sherlock retorts absentmindedly.

“Why don’t you ask her to dance?”

“What? No. She is still angry at me.”

“It’s been a _month_ , Sherlock,” John says, turning to pick up his drinks. “She might not have _forgiven_ you already, but she is _definitely_ not as angry as she was before,” he adds, walking away in the direction of Alexia and her friends.

Sherlock remains at the bar, following Alexia’s every move, completely mesmerized by her looks. He can’t take his eyes off her. When she starts dancing with Max, he can’t hold back his jealousy. Striding decidedly across the sea of people, he reaches the couple and interrupts them:

“May I have this dance?” He enunciates intensely.

Max and Alexia exchange surprised looks. He looks at her and she gestures that it’s okay.

“Sure,” Max says dropping Alexia’s hands. “I was going to get myself something to drink any way.” He walks away, signalling he will be around, in case she needs help.

Alexia extends Sherlock her hand and they start to dance a slow waltz. After a couple of moment’s awkward silence, Sherlock gathers the courage to speak:

“I was wondering: How come Fairbairn and Aldwin were invited?”

“What?” She asks puzzled.

“I mean, this place is full with politicians, entrepreneurs, even royalty. Why did Lady Smallwood invite them? _You_ , I can understand. You organized this party. But _them_?”

“She always invited _all_ of us. Every year since she started throwing these parties. A _third_ of the guests are secret intelligence workers.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a _security_ breach?”

“Not really. A third of the guest list has perfect security clearance, the other two thirds get their security clearance from the first third. One could say this is one of the most _secure_ events in Britain.” He arches his eyebrows in acknowledgment of her logic. “Besides, it’s a nice way to improve morale,” she adds, smiling. “As a matter of fact, you and John are the odd men out this time around,” she adds after a few seconds thought.

“Hum,” Sherlock once again must bow to her logic. “Why _did_ she invite us, then?”

“You don’t know that?” She says, glancing towards Mycroft talking animatedly to Smallwood in a corner.

“No!” Sherlock says, following her eyes.

“Ha!” She laughs smugly, looking back at his confused face. “Since _when_ do you know how to dance?” She changes the subject.

“John and Mary’s wedding!” He says with a timid smile. “You?”

“Chrysanthemenball,” she answers. Sherlock looks lost. “It’s a debutant ball in Munich. I was supposed to take part, but,” she leans over to whisper in his ear. “My father tried to kill me instead,” she explains with a droll smile. Sherlock smiles back, especially at the opportunity to smell her perfume. “So, why aren’t you dancing with your _girlfriend_?” She interrupts his gushing over her.

“She seems to be having enough fun _without_ my help,” he says, pointing to a table, where Irene is entertaining several male MPs.

“ _You_ , on the other hand, seem to be spending a lot of time alone.”

“You are _still_ keeping an eye on me?” He asks, beaming more confidently.

“I’m keeping an eye on _any one_ sitting alone at the bar. And tonight, you are the _only_ one.”

“Well, the night is starting to look up,” he says, broadly smiling.

“How so?”

“I’m talking to _you_ again, after a month.”

“Beats following me on the tube, _doesn’t_ it?”

He looks down with a timid smile. “Would you like a drink?” He asks. She looks at Irene. “Wait for me outside. I’ll be there in five minutes,” Sherlock leans over to whisper in her ear.

“I would like a…”

“Whiskey sour, I know,” he completes.

“Right. _Perceptive_ fellow,” she says, dropping his hand. She smiles as he heads to the bar, and then she walks out of the room into the garden still beaming. After a minute, she hears steps behind her.

“That was quick. I wasn’t expecting you in less than,” she stops as she sees Irene Adler. “Ms Adler! I thought you were somebody else.”

“What a _coincidence_. I thought the same about you, Ms Gardner Batten,” she says, strutting towards her. “Or should I say Ms _Gavin_.” Alexia straightens up, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yes, I know about your _little lie_ ,” Irene continues with a cynic smile. “Did you really think I would buy into that idiotic _training pilot_ story? I _know_ you that work for Mycroft Holmes and that Sherlock saved your life. You thought if you lied I wouldn’t notice what you are planning. Stay _away_ from Sherlock Holmes, you two-faced harlot.”

Alexia holds her breath in terror. “Sherlock and I are both grownups. We can _befriend_ whomever we want,” Alexia answers, standing her ground.

Her response makes Adler change her tactics: “You must be _delusional_ if you think Sherlock would ever see anything more than a _client_ in you,” she says on a threatening voice. “You’re nothing but a _case_. That’s all.”

“If Sherlock doesn’t see me as a friend, why would he seek my presence so much?” Alexia retorts, once again, standing her ground. “If all you say is true, then why are you _telling_ me all this? Why are you worried?”

“I’m not. I know what he likes; I know how to make him stay,” she says defiantly, but Alexia won’t budge. Walking around her like a lioness, Irene changes her tactics once again: “You know, Ms Gavin, Sherlock tells me things. He _likes_ it when I _make_ him tell things,” she whispers the last part, putting her lips very close to Alexia’s ear. “He was _using_ you to get to his brother, dear. You know, sibling rivalry and all,” she adds, stopping in front of Alexia to examine her face.

"No," Alexia replies, her throat tightening.

“He never really _forgave_ Mycroft for the whole Euros thing." Irene looks at Alexia's scared face. "Oh, pet, you thought Sherlock did all he did because of _you_?" She pushes a strand of hair away from Alexia's forehead. "No, darling. He doesn't _care_ about you. As a matter of fact, he thinks his friend's death - what's her name? The fat one? - could have been avoided if _you_ had been around.

"No," Alexia repeats, tears starting to roll down her cheeks.

"Yes. He even says he wishes _you_ had died in her place," she adds, staring coldly at the other. "You were _nothing_ but case, a tool to piss his brother _at best_."

“You’re lying,” Alexia answers, trying to remain confident, but starting to doubt herself. “He would _never_ say such a thing.”

“Not to _you_ , darling!” She says, caressing her face slowly.

"If all of this is true; if Sherlock really feels nothing but contempt for me, why do you need to tell me to stay away from him?"

"Oh, this is just a courtesy warning, so you don't get _hurt_."

"I think I can judge that for myself."

"Of course you can. But now you can add this information to your judging process," she says, her lips inches away from Alexia's. "Stay _away_ from Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you _threatening_ me?" Alexia asks, moving away.

"No, no, no, no, no. I'm just telling you I know you're _alive_ , Alexia Gavin."

At these words, Alexia's legs start to tremble. "Excuse me. I don't have to put up with this sort of abuse," she says, trying to walk away as fast as her legs would allow her.

At the door to the ballroom, Max and Amy just watched the last part of the conversation and are able to catch an ever more shaking Alexia just before her legs give up.

"What was _that_ , hen?" Max asks worried.

“I’m dead,” Alexia whispers in a panicky voice. “She knows. I’m dead.”

“What do you mean?” Amy asks, starting to worry herself.

“She knows _everything_. I gotta get out of here,” Alexia replies, gathering her strength and walking away.

“Wait, Alex,” Amy says, rushing after her. “Tell me what happened, drink something.”

“No, I gotta go. She knows everything,” Alexia half explains, tears streaming down her face. “Tell Lady Smallwood I’m not feeling well,” she adds, leaving Max and Amy staring confusedly at each other. When Max turns around to talk to Irene Adler, she is already gone from the garden. In a few seconds, John and Sherlock join them.

"What happened?" John asks.

"Mr Holmes’ _girlfriend_ just humiliated Alexia," Max explains angrily. "What’s gotten into you to bring that woman here?"

"Calm down. There's no point inn fighting right now," John tries to calm his nerves, while Sherlock jumps into problem-solving modus.

"What did she say?" Sherlock asks.

"Something about knowing Alexia is _alive_. We didn't catch everything, but Alex was shaking when she walked past us," Amy tells.

"That is _bad_ indeed," Sherlock considers for a moment. "Where did Alexia go?"

"She ran into the ballroom," Max answers, while all the others browse the place.

"Okay, we have to look for her. You three, spread around. She must be here somewhere," Sherlock orders.

"What are _you_ going to do?" John asks, as the others move along.

"I need to have a chat with my _girlfriend_."

 

 

Sherlock finds Irene on a table surrounded by C.E.O.s and other important businessmen.

"Can I speak with you for a second?" He whispers in her ear.

"Gentlemen, if you excuse me for a moment," she announces, standing up and following him.

"What did you do to Ms Gavin?" Sherlock snares at her once they reach the hall.

"Oh, _now_ she is Ms Gavin?"

"I _know_ you know."

"Then you know what I said to her."

"Stop joking around, Irene. She was _shaking_ when she walked out of the garden."

Adler smiles a magnificent smile. "I just _informed_ her I don't like being told lies. It's not _my_ fault she gets upset for so little."

"Do I have to _remind_ you that you are a _guest_ at this party?" He tells her, holding her by one wrist.

"Ooh, playing it ruff, are we?" She replies in a sexy voice.

"I'm not kidding, Irene. Once we find her, you are going to apologise and then we are _leaving_."

"I'm _not_ doing such a thing, Sherlock Holmes. The two of you _lie_ to me and _I’m_ the one to apologise?" She asks defiantly.

Exasperate, Sherlock leaves her alone in the hall. He spots the others gathering at the bar and joins them

"Any luck?"

"She is not anywhere," Max announces.

"She is not picking up her phone either," John adds.

"She probably went home," Amy suggests.

Sherlock considers for a couple of moments, and then jumps into action: "Okay, Aldwin, Fairbairn, warn Lady Smallwood of what happened, but tell her we are fixing it. John, tell Mycroft what Irene did. Apologise for me and ask him to deal with her. I'll go after Alex," he says, leaving them quickly.

“Should I tell him her address?” Amy asks after him.

“Believe me. He knows it.” John tries to tranquilize her.


	26. Right Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex, Explicit content

Taking off her shoes, Alexia slowly climbs the flight of stairs to her new apartment. It’s quite a small place, on a modern, charmless the building, but it is close to work and it gets a lot of sunshine during the day. She is happy to have found it, despite rather high rent. Still shaking, she opens the door, but doesn't turn on the lights. Despite living there for over a month, she didn't manage to assemble or even unpack some of the furniture she bought. She has a sofa and a bed, as well as an up and running kitchen. All the rest still lies inside boxes on the floor, mixed with the books and the clothes she has bought in the last weeks. She closes the door and, clutching her shoes to her chest, starts crying bitterly in the dark. Thinking about all the things Irene Adler said to her at the party, she jolts at a unexpected, gentle knock.

“Alex! Open up. I know you’re in there.” Sherlock’s calm voice behind the door is an even bigger surprise, so she moves away, cleaning the tears from her eyes. She remains silent, expecting him to go away, but her telephone rings, breaking the stillness. It’s Amy again. Her friend has been calling ever since she left the party, worried about her, but Alexia has been ignoring the calls. This time she picks up.

“I’m okay, Amy... I’m home. Don’t worry,” she says moving even further from the door. “I am okay. I just couldn’t _stay_ there any longer, but I’m okay and I’m safe. You _don’t_ have to worry….Look, go enjoy yourself and I’ll call you in the morning… Everything is okay. Bye!” She turns off the phone, as if doing so would make the noise it just made go away.

“Alexia, I _know_ you’re there. I’ve _heard_ you,” Sherlock knocks at the door again. “Please,” he continues a bit louder now. “I’m _so_ sorry about what Irene said. _Please_ , open the door.” Taking a deep breath, she opens the door. “Are you okay? I was so _worried_ about you,” he says, walking into the dark apartment. “What _exactly_ did Irene say to you?”

“She said that she knows who I am, and that I work for Mycroft and,” she says choking the tears that insist on coming back. “She said you wished _I_ was dead instead of Mary.” She utters the last words with difficulty.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that. What she said to you is a _lie_. I would _never_ even _think_ such a thing,” he declares, coming closer and taking her shoes from her.

Instead of soothing her, his words stir a feeling of remorse. “I _have_ to go, Holmes,” she says, starting to shake again. “He will come after me and he will stop at _nothing_ until I’m dead. And I’m putting _all_ of you in danger,” she explains with panic in her voice.

“Look, all we know so far is that Irene knows you are _Alexia Gavin_. From what I found out, she has _no_ idea you’re actually Cäcilie Adler,” he adds in his most comforting voice. “Please, _trust_ me. We will find a solution for this _together_.”

At the sound of his words, she breaks down crying once again. She thinks of all he and his friends have done for her so far. Sherlock rushes to embrace her: “You’re crying. Don’t cry!” With one hand, he cleans the tears from her eyes, with the other; he pulls her face close to his and kisses her lips gently. When he stops, Alexia looks at him astonished:

“You _kissed_ me!” She says with wide open eyes.

“You were _crying_!”

“You kiss _everyone_ who cries?” She adds still mortified

“No, but it _worked_ ,” he answers, smiling. “You _stopped_.”

Alexia can’t help but giggle. Staring into his eyes, she feels a sort of electricity going through her body. With her foot, she kicks door just enough to close it, leaving them illuminated only by the light coming from the floor to ceiling windows. Taking hold of the lapel of his suit jacket, she pulls his body closer to hers:

“Don’t stop!” She says, kissing him passionately.

Sherlock can’t help but notice the differences between this kiss and the ones they shared in the train station in Bremerhaven: her shoulders are not clenching, her jaws are relaxed and the only reason why she has straightened up her seems to be to reach his lips better. More than that, she is kissing him with and intensity and a passion he never felt before; not even in the beginning with Irene. His heart is beating fast and he feels a wave of warm wash over his body. He slides his hands down her back, resting them on the low of her back. He presses their bodies together, leaving no space between them.

He gently catches her lower lip in his teeth and she moans. She traces his bottom lip with her tongue, sliding it inside his mouth. She slowly moves her hands from his lapel to his hair, caressing his neck. Now it’s his time to moan.

“Alex, I…” Sherlock whispers.

“Sherlock, don’t talk,” she interrupts, pushing herself away from him just enough to see his complete face. "If you talk, my brain will take back control and all this will stop," she adds, undoing his tie.

"Not a peep," Sherlock answers, pulling her back closer to him with one hand and kissing her neck.

She slides her hands down his sides and stops at his ass, softly caressing it, taking deep breaths down neck. With his free hand, he does the same with her ass, squeezing it gently. She moans, moving her hands up his chest and kissing his neck until she reaches his earlobe. He moans, feeling a bit dizzy as she nibbles on his ear.

He pulls her body even closer and she can feel a bulge on his trousers. She stops moving and looks into his eyes. They are grey in the faint light from the windows. Both of his hands are on her ass and he has a wild look on his face she never seen before. Taking a deep breath, she kisses him again, gently at first, then wildly; her tongue roaming his tongue. He reciprocates the kiss with the same passion.

Sliding her hand underneath his jacket, she pushes it up to loosen it from his shoulders. He quickly complies and takes it off. She lets her hands wander about his chest and shoulders, then gently slides one of them down his stomach until she reaches his belt. Sherlock groans into the kiss, sliding his hand up her are back, giving her goosebumps. Using both of her hands, she fumbles with the buckle and eagerly opens it. She moves her hands to gently cup the growing bulge in his pants, applying a little pressure. Moaning again, he slides his hands up her hair, pulling backwards gently. He sucks and licks the side of her neck, moving to the spot under her ear, making her moan loudly. She finds the zipper of his pants and works it until it opens. Sherlock lets his trousers slip down his legs, while he opens the buttons on Alexia’s neck holder. The upper part of her dress falls down to her waist, revealing her bare breasts. He takes a step back to admire her. With one of his hands, he strokes the skin right under her breasts, while the other hand pulls her back close to his body. He wastes no time and moves his mouth to her right breast, kissing it and licking her nipple. She moans loudly. In response, he moves his hand from her back to stroking her left breast, taking his time.

“Sherlock…” She sighs. Still sucking her nipple, he starts fumbling the back of her dress for a zipper. “It’s on the side,” she says, starting to undo the buttons on his shirt.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows when he locates the invisible zipper. Once he opens it, all it takes is a little thug and her dress falls like a cascade of satin on the floor. Moving very swiftly, Sherlock kicks away his pants and, dexterously, takes off his shoes. They both stare at each other, breathing heavily, before embracing and kissing passionately again. Alexia slides Sherlock’s shirt down his shoulders, letting it fall on the floor. She leads him slowly towards the sofa and gently pushes him to sit down. She kneels straddling her knees on each side of his body, staring at him, serious.

“Oh, this beautiful,” Sherlock whispers.

“No talking,” Alexia warns him in a kind tone, stroking his hair and lowering her body to kiss his neck. The skin all over his body tingles every time she touches him. Moving her pelvis closer to his body, she can feel his dick through the fabric of his underwear. Sherlock closes his eyes and winces at the touch. He moans loudly. He places small, but firm kisses over her breasts, putting his hands on her ass and pulling her body closer to him. Sliding both his hand under the side of her panties, he grabs both cheeks, squeezing them gently. She starts rolling her hips against his groin, producing friction between them, making him groan softly. In return, he grips her ass with a bit more pressure, moving up his kisses from her breasts to her collar bone, to her neck, to her lips. He slowly removes her panties, inch by inch.

“Take it all off,” she orders. Sherlock nods, as she promptly stands up.

He examines her from head to toe, admiring the sight. Reaching his hands up to her breasts, he starts kissing them again, moving slowing, down to her belly, his hands sliding to her back. Alexia grins and cuddles his curls. He moves his hands to her back then to her ass, licking her bellybutton. While she moans gently, he progresses down, caressing the sides of her thighs and brushing his lips against the lace of her panties. Placing a soft kiss on her thigh, next to the fabric, he grabs the sides of her underwear and pulls it down, slowly, tenderly kissing the uncovered hair. With her indicator on his chest, Alexia gently pushes him back, caressing his hair with the other hand. Spreading his legs apart and kneeling right between them, she slides her fingers down his stomach and lays a kiss on the bulge on his underwear before moving her hands to their hem, tugging them a bit. Sherlock moves his hips up enough so she can swiftly take them off. She takes a deep breath before straddling his body once again.

She slides back and, using her own slick to coat his cock, she slowly sinks down onto it, letting out a low orgasmic sigh. He groans as she starts rocking her hips, moaning loudly herself. Sherlock grabs hold of her hips as she picks up the pace, relentlessly lifting and lowering herself on top of him. Her muscles tense up as she arches her back. Alexia’s insides clench around his cock as she feels the rising wave that indicate her imminent orgasm. Sherlock marvels at the tell-tale pressure and tingling beginning to take over. His forehead wrinkles and his toes curl as he is gasping in between moans; his hips bucking as she rocks him faster. Alexia cums, throwing her head back, moaning. A couple more rocking movements and Sherlock gets there too with a low, loud groan. He lays his head between her breasts, panting, while she kisses the top of it. Looking up at her face, he smiles:

“Can I speak now?”

“I don’t know,” she answers, out of breath. “What did you want to say?” She asks, still caressing his hair.

“I don’t know,” he replies, laughing. She laughs with him, but starts surveying the room, looking for something. “Do you mind if I…” he says, lifting Alexia from his lap and standing up. She watches stunned as he reaches for his jacket and gets a pack of handkerchiefs out of the pocket. Offering her the package, he sits next to her.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling timidly. They both awkwardly clean themselves, unable to say anything. Capable of thinking straight again, Alexia is not sure she can trust Sherlock because of his involvement with Irene. Sherlock is still struggling to find the right words to articulate what he wanted to say. “I guess we do _have_ to talk, right?” She takes the first step.

“What Irene said to you tonight, that was all lies. She wanted to _hurt_ you, so she said what she knew would upset you the most.”

“But she knows who I _am_ , Sherlock. What if she knows who I _was_?” she asks exasperated.

“That is why I think she doesn’t,” he replies avidly. “What would hurt you more than threatening you with your _old_ identity?” She considers the logic of what he says, but it doesn’t improve her disposition. “Look, Alex,” he says, taking her hand in both of his. “She saw that I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight and she lashed out on you,” he explains, caressing her hand gently. “She knows that I can’t stop thinking about you and that she means _nothing_ to me. She used all she had to offend you.” He moves his hand to her chin, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “You can’t let her get to you. You’re _stronger_ than that.”

Alexia looks him in the eyes and her own brighten up a little.

“You look _ravishing_ ,” he says, leaning in to gently kiss her lips.

She almost melts in is arms, but the thought of him and Irene together brings her back to reality. “Look, Sherlock: the way I look tonight; this is not my _real_ self. It’s all make-up and hair styling. It _will_ be different in the morning,” she explains sombre.

Sherlock laughs, leaving her aghast: “Alex, you’ve been _crying_. Your mascara has run under her eyes and you look like a panda right now.”

She gasps, standing up to check herself in the mirror, which leans next to the door. “Shit!” she cries, shocked with her own looks.

Sherlock laughs, walking towards her. Putting both his arms around her shoulders, he kisses the back of her head. “And to me, you look just as attractive as you _ever_ did.”

Horrified, Alexia excuses herself to clean up. On the way to the bathroom, she looks back at him with longing eyes: “Don’t to move. I’ll be right back.”


	27. Breathe a Little Easier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, Explicit content

Ten minutes pass before Alexia reappears in the living room; hair wet, clean face, smelling fresh and wearing a silk robe. She finds Sherlock sitting on the sofa, turning off his phone, his underwear and shirt back on, his pants lying by his side.

“I just called John to tell you that you are fine,” he explains, standing up.

“You’re not leaving, are you? We still have to talk,” she asks, frozen by the door.

He smiles in a flirtatious way, making it difficult for her to remain focused. “I’ll stay if you _want_ me to,” he answers in a soft voice.

“Do you want something to drink?” She tries to deflect, walking towards the kitchen.

He follows her; walking provokingly slowly. She tries to maintain concentration while he smells her hair; the warmth of his body so close to her. When he starts kissing her neck, she clearly has trouble resisting him: “Oh, Sherlock,” she says, melting into his arms. “How can I _trust_ you? You are in a relationship with someone else.”

He pulls her to him and, looking into her eyes, says: “I _was_ with Irene to protect you.” He tries to kiss her, but now she manages to resist.

“ _What_ in the world do you mean?”

He takes a few steps back, surprised: “The moment you told me about her being married to your adoptive father, I _had_ to make sure she was not a threat to you. I had to keep you _safe_.”

“By _screwing_ a dominatrix?” Alexia asks, failing to hide the pinch of anger in her voice.

He looks down at his feet, uncomfortable and guilty at the same time. “It was the only way she would react. I needed to make sure she was kept _away_ from you.”

Alexia looks at him with mixed feelings. _He acted the way I would (and had) acted for work. But this is still his personal life._ He looks up at her, making she remember what Mary told her; that he had very little relationship experiences. Almost a virgin, not only sexually, but interpersonally as well. And her anger melted into a feeling of endearment.

Perceiving the change in her disposition, he slowly moves back closer to her. “Alex, I can’t stop _thinking_ about you since the day I met you, since you kissed me in that station in Bremerhaven,” he says, trapping her between his body and the kitchen counter. “You must have noticed it. It was so _obvious_ ,” he adds, speaking softly and slowly. “How I was _jealous_ of Max Fairbairn,” he recounts, lowering his head to whisper in her ear. “How I tried to be near you at _every_ chance.” His lips now delicately brushing against her ear. “How I practically _begged_ you to stay in Baker Street,” he finishes by lightly blowing on her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

“You messed up _rascal_. You know exactly how to push my buttons, _don’t_ you?” She retorts, her lips starting to curl into a smile.

“The most important question _is_ : is it working?” He asks in a low, sexy voice, his lips almost touching hers.

“Like a fucking _charm_ ,” she answers, kissing him; gently at first, but then passionately. He embraces her, feeling the softness of the silk robe. “I don’t know if I should _punch_ you or just _fuck_ you.” It’s her turn to say in a sexy voice.

“Let’s hope it’s the _last_ one.” They kiss again and she starts to unbutton his shirt.

“Why did you put it this back _on_?”

“I didn’t know I was _not_ going to need it.” She finally gives up and rips the buttons apart. “Oh,” Sherlock reacts surprised. “That was a _new_ shirt!”

“Sorry! I’ll pay for it,” she answers, striping it off of him. He lifts her and sits her on top of the kitchen countertop. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she kisses him wildly. “Oh, Sherlock, what are you _doing_ to me? I can’t even think clearly.”

“And I’m just getting started. Wait till we get to your bed,” he says, carrying her towards the bedroom. He gently sits her on the corner of the bed and moves closer, spreading her legs apart and kneeling right between them, kissing her neck. Her hands find his hair, pulling it backwards softly, while he gradually opens her silk robe, tracing the fabric with light kisses. Alexia moans as he runs his fingers over her nipples down to her waistband. When Sherlock pulls it open, she shrugs her shoulders and lets the robe slide off, revealing her breasts. Once again, he stops and admires the view.

With a sigh, he leans towards her to slowly kiss her neck, her shoulders and collarbones. He stops on her breasts, first slowly stroking both of them; then kissing the right one, while playing with her left nipple between his right thumb and indicator. Alexia moans loudly as Sherlock’s tongue flicks over her nipple. Her soft murmur makes him smile. The way she has been calling him by his first name makes him happy. Not only that, it arouses him _._

_Okay,_ he thinks to himself. _It’s time to impress the girl_. He slides his hands down to her hips and licks his way down to her navel. When he looks up, she is intently looking down at him, eyes lit with desire, hands still on his hair. He smiles and runs a hand up the inside of her thigh slowly, before reaching damp, warm hair. _Lubrication. That’s a good sign._ Alexia whines at the feeling, and starts to pant. He inserts two fingers into her, sending her back arching, as his left hand inches deeper through her folds, rubbing along her inner walls, looking for the right spot. _Keep moving. Don’t use too much pressure._ She whimpers as he strokes her clit with his thumb. _Oh! Right! Over 35% of women need clitoral stimulation to reach climax._ He rubs his thumb up and down her clitoris and she gasps. _Good reaction_ , he thinks. Moving to brush it in slow, steady circles, he notices the muscles on her thighs and stomach tense up. _That’s good. Maybe a bit more ‘Andante’?_ He increases the speed of the circular movements of his thumb, at the same time as he rubs the two fingers still inside in a feat of dexterity only possible after years of violin practice.

“Oh, Sherlock, that’s good,” she moans in a melting voice, running her hand through his hair.

He grins a lustful smile at the sound of his name. _‘Allegro’ now._ He intensifies the speed of his movements.

“Sherlock, I’m _so_ close,” she says, moving her hands to grab the bedsheets.

He can feel her muscles tighten around his fingers, as she lets out a loud sigh; her orgasm taking over all her senses. “Good?” He asks, gently removing his fingers and whipping them on his side.

She nods, still a bit numb. “Where did you…”

“Shush!” He orders, getting up in one knee to kiss her. “I’m not done yet.” He kisses her very softly, brushing his tongue against her lips, his hands caressing her breasts. “Are you multiorgasmic?” Before Alexia can beat her shock at the question, he is already pushing her to lay on her back. “Never mind. I’ll find out.”

Once Sherlock is, once again, kneeling in front of her, he separates her legs apart, kissing the inside of her thighs as he inches closer, and placing playful kisses on her groin. He notices how the tension of her body starts to melt. _Good._ He leans down and licks her, deliberately tasting her. Alexia can’t help but moan; her hands moving to her sides to grab the bedsheets once more. _Okay, clitoral stimulation once again._ Sherlock holds her hips in place, placing a soft kiss on her clit, making her sigh. He starts working it, kissing and licking in turns.

“Sherlock, that feels so good,” she cries; her voice weak with pleasure.

He can’t help but smile every time she says his name. It excites him to the point he feels an erection growing. He moans softly. _Suction,_ he thinks with a triumphant feeling. He places his lips over her clitoris and starts sucking; lightly at first, but applying more pressure as he feels her muscles tensing up once again.

“ _Oh, god! S_ o close,” she moans.

“Wait. I’m not done,” he says, sliding his fingers inside her entrance again, teasing her. He thrusts them in an irregular way, alternating them with his tongue.

“I’m coming, Sherlock!” She cries as she feels her climax getting closer.

A couple of movements more, and she is screaming his name as she hits her orgasm, clinging harder to the bedsheets.

“Had fun?” He asks with a crooked smile, standing on his knees.

She lifts her head from the mattress, pushing herself upright with her arms. “Yes, I…” She stammers, trying to find words, feeling a bit dizzy. She notices how hard Sherlock is. “But it seems like you could have some _yourself_. Care to join me?” She says, extending him a hand.

“What do you mean?”

Alexia wraps her legs around his waist and pulls his body closer to her, so his dick presses against her cervix.

“Oh!” he whispers with a shy smile on his face, trying to retain his balance above her. Seeing her own smile, he seizes her by the thighs and gently pushes her up the bed. He quickly takes off his underwear and, with one arm on each side of her head, he gives her a sweet, tender kiss.

“You okay?” She asks, running a hand through his cheek.

“Splendid!” He answers, pulling himself inside her, sighing at the feeling of her squeezing him. He slowly moves out, thrusting only the tip in inside.

“You feel so good, Sherlock!”

Sherlock slowly thrusts in and out, at first keeping a low pace. Their breath come in short pants as his thrusts speed up; her insides clenching harder around his cock.

“I’m not going to last long. Not if you keep on doing that,” he says on a coarse voice.

“But I want you to have fun,” she answers, wrapping her legs around his hips. He gaps at the change of pressure. “Like that?” She says in a playful voice. Sherlock nods. “Then move a bit faster and I promise you will _love_ it,” she adds in raunchy tone. He complies.

With a couple of thrusts, both of them are moaning intensely. Alexia’s muscles tighten as she gets closer to climax, making the friction even more welcome for Sherlock.

“Oh, Alex, you’re _brilliant_!” He moans on her ear, as he increases his pace. She runs her fingers through his hair, arching her back in pleasure. He pounds into her a couple of times before her orgasm washes over her body once again. Her tautness makes Sherlock reach his own orgasm in a couple of moves, waves of pleasure taking over his senses.

It takes a moment for Sherlock to catch his breath, as he rests his head on her collar bone. “I guess you _are_ multiorgasmic after all!”

She laughs, sliding her hand softly down his back. “How did you get so _good_ at this?” Alexia asks, still panting.

He smiles in sly way. “I’m good at _everything_ I do,” he answers smugly, pushing himself up and out of her.

“Show-off much?” She smiles back at him but he can see there is something else in her mind.

“Everything okay?”

“We left the handkerchiefs in the living room. My brain is really _not_ working right,” she answers, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll fetch it,” he says, jumping to his feet energetically. In less than a minute, he is back, offering her, once again, the package.

“Thank you,” she says, cleaning herself, still uneasy.

“You _still_ look worried,” Sherlock comments, sitting down next to her, whilst cleaning himself as well.

“Well,” she whines, wrinkling her nose. “There is something, but I don’t know if I can _handle_ the answer.”

He examines her for a moment. “May I _extrapolate_ a bit?” he says, sitting closer to her.

“Extrapolate? Seriously?” She teases him, and then nods.

“You are afraid I learned all this from Irene?” She sighs and nods. “I _didn’t_. I’m Sherlock Holmes. I _educate_ myself until I _master_ every subject I’m confronted with. You should know that,” he says in a fake-chastising tone.

“Of course,” she agrees, with a smile Sherlock is starting to understand means she is happy to be proven wrong. Her eyes are still worried, though. “But you did _practise_ with her, didn’t you?”

“Of course” he answers, in his usual pragmatic tone. “How _else_ should I have done?” He adds, reminding her why he was known to be a sociopath. She takes a deep breath, trying to ignore his lack of civility. “Since we are talking about sensitive topics, can I ask you something indiscrete?” Once again, she nods. “I noticed the scars on your chest and stomach,” he says, while she mechanically covers herself with her hands and arms. “I also noticed we didn't use any protection before. Was that because of your wounds?”

She remains silent for a moment, staring at the bedsheets, still covering herself. _Sherlock can be painfully to the point when he wants._ A sudden twinge of regret shoots up through her: _You completely forgot protection. You had sex with a junkie, who is sleeping with a notorious sex worker and forgot to use a condom!_ She takes another deep breath to gather her courage. “We didn’t use protection because, somewhere around the time you kissed me, my brain stopped working,” She says, rubbing her forehead. Looking up at him, she notices his panic expression. “Don’t worry. You are _right_. The bullet _did_ damage my womb enough for me not be able to have kids,” she adds with a sarcastic look.

Sherlock studies her in silent. “One last thing: don’t be embarrassed about your scars,” he says, moving her arms out of the way of his. “They are part of your _story_ , and I appreciate them” he says caressing, first the one in her chest, then the one on her lower abdomen. “Specially this one,” he says, rubbing his thumb on the newest one on her stomach. “This one not only sort of matches mine,” he says, touching the mark on his own stomach with his other hand. “This one brought us together.”

She gazes at him seriously for a moment before breaking into giggles. “That comment was a _bit_ risible,” she says, leaning in to kiss him and muzzle his giggles. She stops kissing him and, standing up; suggests: “You must be hungry by now. Why don’t I go get something for us to eat and drink.”

He watches as she walks out of the room. “And by the way: You don't have to worry either. Molly checked me up for pretty much _everything_ after the Culverton Smith thing. I'm _clean_ ,” he says as she walks out of the room. “And Irene always demanded a condom,” he adds, and Alexia, on her way to the kitchen, breaths a little easier.


	28. Her Legs Between His

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, explicit content

After a couple of minutes, Alexia comes back with a bottle of isotonic beverage. Sherlock takes the bottle on his hands and, looking inquisitively at her asks: “What exactly are your _plans_ for me tonight that you feed me isotonic?”

“Sherlock, my plans for this night _were_ to smile, nod and make polite conversation with rich people I don’t really care for. The best I thought _could_ happen was Amy, Max and I getting _really_ drunk in the end, when everybody had left,” she explains humorously, sitting down next to him. “Now, the moment you kissed me, my brain went into melt down and I don’t seem to get it to work properly, as much as I try,” she says, leaning in to lay a kiss on his neck. “ _Nothing_ of this was planned. I can’t plan _anything_ with you around me,” she adds, repeating the kiss. “Besides, that is _all_ the eatable contents of my fridge,” she finishes smiling.

“What a shame,” he says, opening the bottle and taking a mouthful. “I was hoping you were going to do _unmentionable_ things to me tonight,” he says, leaning back on the pillow behind him.

“As I said, my brain is not working properly,” she says, taking a bite out of spring roll. “Who knows what might happen?”

Sherlock notices her telephone on the food tray. “What for did you bring that?”

“I need to call Lady Smallwood.”

He stares at her, trying to understand the logic behind her intention. “Why would you call her in the middle of the night? Sounds like something _I_ would do, not _you_.”

“Because I _know_ it will go to voice-mail,” she answers in an insecure voice.

“Two things: one, it is very reassuring to know that one of the heads of the Minister of Defence turns _off_ her phone in the night. And two, you _don’t_ want to talk to her?”

Alexia turns to look at him. “One, she turns off her _personal_ phone; the MoD one is always on. Two, I don’t know how to explain to her what happened; especially because you and I haven’t talked about it yet.”

“Then don’t call her,” he says, leaning back on the pillows. “You don’t have to explain her anything.”

“But I _always_ call her after her party,” she explains exasperated. “To talk over the details and what needs to be done.”

“Then _do_ it…”

“But how am I _supposed_ to explain everything that happened? We haven’t discussed it _ourselves_ ,” she answers, almost in a whine.

“ _Should_ we?” He asks without moving from the pillows. “Discuss what happened?”

Alexia sighs, with downcast eyes. “I don’t want to.”

“No?”

“No. I’m afraid if we do, my brain will start _working_ again and this whole _sexy_ thing will stop,” she answers, gazing intently at the bedsheets.

“Hum!” Sherlock moves towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders suggestively. “I wouldn’t want that either,” he adds, kissing her neck sensually.

“I don’t know what to do,” Alexia says, fighting the urge to just relax and let him kiss her.

Sherlock stops and takes her telephone in his hand. “There is a _simple_ solution,” he says, typing in her key code.

“How do you know my password?”

“ _Please_!” Sherlock snorts, searching for the right contact. “ _All_ you have to do is send her a message,” he adds, looking at her hesitant face. “Here we go: dear Elizabeth.”

“Lady Smallwood!” Alexia interrupts vexed.

“Oh, don’t have that kind of intimacy. Okay,” he says in his rapid-fired mode. “Dear _lady Smallwood_ , I am so sorry I had to leave the party earlier, but I wasn’t feeling well. I will call you as soon as I feel better to discuss what needs to be done now. Greetings…” He says, hitting send. “Happy?” He asks, turning the phone off. She nods as he looks around for a place to leave the phone. “I must tell you: With _all_ my powers of deduction, I still don’t understand why you would buy _all_ this furniture but keep it in the boxes in which they came?”

She looks around the boxes lining the floor. “I just haven’t had the time to _assemble_ any of it yet,” she says, shrugging.

“Just _make_ some of new agents you’ve been training come and do it for you,” he says, putting the phone on the tray.

“It doesn’t work like that, Sherlock,” she says, laughing off any worries about how he found out she has been training new comers, while Sherlock stands up. “I’m there to teach them, not to force them to work for me.”

“Oh, you sound just like John!” He says, taking the bottle and the phone. “You’re _can’t_ force people to _work_ for you… You _can’t_ make experiments _without_ people’s permission…” He adds in a funny voice, walking out of the room.

“Hum,” Alexia answers, more in a moan than in her normal voice, stretching out on the bed.

Sherlock stops by the door. “Are you staring at my _buttocks_ , Ms Gavin?” He asks without turning back.

“Walk slowly, so I can enjoy the view a bit longer, would you?” She answers, half laughing. “But come back quickly,” she cries after him, watching his progress down the hall.

 

 

When he gets back, Alexia is not on the bed anymore. He finds her by windows, fumbling with the mechanism which closes the blinds. “Why are you doing that?” He asks, throwing himself into the bed.

“Well, I figure that if we are going to _parade_ around naked, as we’ve been doing for the last few hours, it would be best if we had some privacy,” she says, finally managing to close the shades. “Much better now!”

“ _Now_ you’re worried about privacy?” He says with a chortle. “We had sex twice and every one of your neighbours could see and _now_ you’re worried about privacy?”

“Well, we don’t need to _continue_ putting on a show for them all night,” she says, manoeuvring around the boxes and bags on the floor towards the door. Turning the lights on, she leans against the wall, looking at Sherlock, who is lying on the bed, arms crossed on the pillow behind his head.

“It seems to me a bit late now,” he continues, ignoring her glaze. “I mean, even though we kept the lights _off_ , the lights from the street itself was enough to illuminate _everything_ inside here,” he says as she crosses to the bed. “If _we_ didn’t have any problems seeing things in here, I doubt people outside had any either.”

“Do you _ever_ stop talking?” She asks, laying down next to him and placing small kisses on his shoulder.

“I am _well-known_ for talking enormously,” he retorts, ignoring the kisses. “Not only I speak a lot, I do it at great speed. People have trouble _following_ what I say sometimes,” he adds in a mix of pride and nervousness.

“You were _quite_ quiet before,” Alexia announces, moving her body as close to his as possible. “I bet I can make you _that_ quiet again,” she declares, leaning in to kiss his lips.

“Well, before, I was afraid the sex would stop if I said anything,” he says the moment she stops kissing him. “Now, we are not having any sex.”

“Does that mean you reconsidered your position on the whole having more sex thing?” She asks, whilst moving her hand up and down his stomach. “Shush!” She says, kissing him more passionately,

“You can tickle and tease me as you want; I can keep my focus under _any_ condition.”

“Are you _challenging_ me?” She inquires, running her fingers down his groin, playing with the hair.

“I’m s _till_ in control here.”

“ _Definitely_ a challenge, then,” she adds with a smile. She cups her hand around his cock and applies a little bit of pressure, feeling it growing. Sherlock groans, breathing heavily into her neck. “Still in control?” She mocks him.

“Yes!” He answers in a tone closer to ecstasy than to security. Before he can go on, Alexia curls her hand around his shaft and starts to moving it up and down, spreading bits of pre-cum with her thumb. Sherlock’s hips jolt instinctively at the movement and a moan escapes his lips. “Oh, Alex!”

She smiles at the reaction. “Wanna give up control now?” She asks, pumping his cock a few times. A strangled noise is all Sherlock can conjure up from the back of his throat. Alexia trails her tongue almost feather lightly down his neck and stomach, stopping to gently circle his left nipple, before dipping her head down towards his groin. With the tip of her tongue, she reaches out to cautiously lick the head of his cock; her hand still moving up and down the length of it. Once again, Sherlock whimpers and groans, unable to make up any sensible sentences. She alternates kisses and licks on the tip of his cock, while pumping the shaft with one hand and playing with his balls with the other. After a few more moves, she takes his dick in her mouth, whirling her tongue around the tip. He sighs, throwing his head back, placing one hand on her hair. Alexia sucks as much of his dick into her mouth as she can, swirling with her tongue at the head as she pulls backwards before plunging down again. Sherlock is now a whining machine; the name ‘Alex,’ the only recognizable word he can utter. It only takes her a few more bounces of her head before beads of cum fill her mouth.

Alexia lifts up her face to look at Sherlock. She smiles at his silence, swallowing his cum, while he enjoys the aftermath of his orgasm. “Had fun, chatty mouth?” She asks in a teasing tone.

“Ahm…” He whimpers, slowly regaining the ability to speak. “Yes! That was marvellous!” He says stroking her face and pulling it closer to his face. He kisses her, tasting himself on her mouth; a surprising pleasing feeling. “You win! I’ll be _mute_ whenever you tell me to,” he adds, running a hand down her back, snuggling her body closer to his.

“This is not a competition, Sherlock,” she reprimands.

“Still, from now on, I will be _utterly_ compliant whenever you want to do those _unmentionable_ things,” he says, squeezing her even closer. She lets out a satisfied sigh, with a reluctant smile he cannot see. “What is it?” He asks, caressing her back.

“I’m just pleased at the possibility of doing all this again,” she answers, breathing in deeply, as if to hold on to the smell of his skin. Sherlock holds her close to his body, uncharacteristically silent. Alexia is surprised with his performance. For someone who was called _the virgin_ by most of the secret service, he sure knows his way around a woman’s body. She can’t help but wonder if he had learned so much about sex for Irene Adler’s sake. Lying snugly on his stomach, Alexia finds the courage to ask: “Sherlock, were you _in love_ with Adler?”

His hand freezes half-way down her back and he takes a deep breath before saying anything. “That is a very _direct_ question. And I thought we were not going to talk about any of those things…”

“It’s just that,” she starts to justify herself, taking a deep breath as well. “Before you were in a relationship with her, you used to be uninterested in sex, to say the least,” she says, caressing his chest. “Now, you are…” She stops to find the right words. “Well, you’re definitely _not_ uninterested,” she adds, feeling Sherlock’s chest tremble underneath her upper body with a light giggle. “I was wondering if it was all because of _her_?”

“Well,” he says with a sigh. “In a way I _did_.” He answers, resuming the stroking of her back. “To be honest, in the beginning the attraction I felt for her was _really_ extraordinary. She was _different_ from all other women I knew. I could not _read_ her like I did other people and that _caught_ my imagination. She _challenged_ me, praised me, even _beat_ me – literally and metaphorically.”

“The _forbidden_ side of it all probably played a part on it.”

“Possibly,” Sherlock says, running his fingers through her hair. “At first, because she was an opponent of Mycroft; then, because nobody else _knew_ about it. When John encouraged me to exchange more than _messages_ with her, I decided it was worth a try. But I found the affair not as exciting as before.”

“Probably because it was _sanctioned_ ,” she concludes. He nods. “You really never _suspected_ she was married?”

He sighs once again; this time with a touch of shame on his tone. “To be even more honest with you, the attraction I felt for Irene _blinded_ me. In more than one occasion.”

“Bond Air?” She interrupts. He nods once again. “Come on. Anyone is capable of making mistakes. Even you,” Alexia points out, still caressing his chest. “Especially if they are infatuated.”

“Have _you_ ever had that problem?”

“Well, for starters, I _always_ read the briefing,” she answers jokingly, immediately noticing a shudder of shame go through his body. “But that is _part_ of my job. I was _trained_ to trust the briefing.”

Both remain silent for a couple of moments. “Have you ever made a mistake because you were, as you said, _infatuated_?” He asks, breaking the stillness.

“Well, to be honest, every guy I ever had anything for was _also_ on the service, so… _That_ was never much of a problem for me because we were on the same side.”

“So, you were _never_ in such a situation. You do not know how it feels to discover your _own_ mistakes,” he tells her, loosening the grip on her body.

“Come on, Sherlock,” she says, moving away from him as well. “I _know_ how it feels not to be able to think straight in the presence of somebody.”

“Really? Were _you_ ever blinded by somebody you were up against?” He asks, propping himself on his elbows, looking puzzled.

“Well, not exactly _up against_ … But definitely somebody who turned my head.”

“In the service? You said you _only_ dated people in the service…” He is really mystified now.

“No, not in the _service_ ,” she says, turning a shade redder. “And we didn’t actually date.” Sherlock looks questioningly. “It’s _you_ , Sherlock!” She adds, sitting up on the bed. This answer makes Sherlock’s jaw drop a little. “I know I should be asking you about Irene, but all I can think of is how great you _bum_ looks naked!” She shouts, hiding her face on her hands, while Sherlock bursts out in laughter. The more he laughs, the more she hides her face.

He stops and gently turns her around to face him. “Don’t worry,” he says seriously. “I’m thinking the same about your breasts right now.” She lifts her head from her hands, smiling. “And I never thought about _anyone’s_ breasts before in my life.”

“Not even Irene’s?”

“Alex,” he sits up by her side and starts running his fingers down her naked back, sending goose bumps all over her skin. “Why don’t we _leave_ Irene Adler in the past?”

They lay next to each other, just staring at each other, silently. Sherlock suddenly says: “Alex, you called me Sherlock!”

“Holmes sounds a bit too impersonal for what we were just doing. Don’t you think?” she answers, seriously. “And you called me Alex as well. So, we are even,” she says smiling, hooking one of her legs between his.


	29. Come With Me

The first thing Alexia sees when she opens her eyes is the back of Sherlock’s head. She holds her breath as panic sets in. _I slept with Sherlock Holmes! I slept with my boss’ brother!_ Frozen by astonishment, she lays, mulling over everything that happened the night before: the snips of conversation they had, the sex. She can barely breathe with the thoughts of all the mistakes she has made in one single night.

“Will you _stop_ staring at me while I sleep, please? It’s _very_ disconcerting,” Sherlock says without moving.

Alexia gasps with shock. “How did you _know_ I was looking at you? I didn’t _even_ move!”

“Your breathing patter indicated you were awake,” he explains, still not moving.

“ _How_ do you know my breathing patterns?”

“I’ve spent _months_ watching over you sleep,” he says in a gentle voice, finally turning towards her. “I’ve learned to differentiate your breathing patterns.”

“Now, _that’s_ disconcerting,” she says with a giggle, relaxing.

“Well, that comes with the job,” he says, smiling, caressing her hair. “Now, why were you _creepily_ staring at the back of my head?” Alexia sighs and turns to face the ceiling. “Your brain is back online?”

“Yeah!” She answers with another sigh. “To tell the truth, I was freaking out about everything that happened.”

“ _Everything_ that happened?” He says, still caressing her hair.

“Well, _yeah_!” She replies, catching his hand. “It was quite a _momentous_ night. I mean, Irene threatened me; we slept together, which will _not_ make her any happier…” She takes a deep breath, still holding his hand. “Not to mention, you’re my boss’ _brother_. That _can’t_ be good!” She adds, rubbing her brows with the other hand.

“So?” He answers nonchalantly, playing with her fingers.

“Well, you might like to plague your brother, but I would rather _not_ provoke him into _firing_ me.”

“We are both entitled to private lives, aren’t we? Besides,” he adds. “Mycroft doesn’t _need_ to know everything about it.”

“For somebody who _pestered_ me so much about lying, you seem to be very eager to take the first opportunity of keeping secrets, aren’t you?” She says, dropping his hand. “No. I’m keeping no more secrets, Sherlock; neither from _you_ , _nor_ from your brother. _Especially_ now that Adler knows who I am and you _all_ might be in danger,” she declares with a big sigh, covering her face with both her hands. “Oh, what did I _do_! What am I _going_ to do?” she cries, shaking her head slowly.

“Are you regretting what happened between us?” Sherlock asks solemn.

“No,” Alexia answers, turning on her side to face him again. “Of course not, Sherlock,” she adds caressing his hair. “But I _do_ worry about what Adler could do to you.”

“I’m glad to hear you are not sorry about us, but I told you last night, and I’ll tell you again: We can find a solution for the Irene problem _together_.” He goes back to caressing her. “Why don’t we discuss this over breakfast? I’m pretty sure you will feel better once you’ve eaten.”

She considers what he says for a while before adding: “It’s a good idea, but I have nothing in the house in the way of breakfast but tea. I suggest we go out for it.”

“Okay. Now, _how_ am I supposed to do that, when you destroyed my clothes?” he says, pointing to the busted buttons on his shirt.

“I apologised and I told you I will repay you for that,” she says, looking at him with feigned indignation. “Besides, you seem to have enjoyed yourself _fabulously_ after that,” she says standing up and stopping to consider. “You know what, I think I have some clothes that _will_ fit you hidden somewhere in those boxes,” pointing to the living room. “Why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll bring them to you?” She asks, putting on her robe and walking out of the room.

“Okay,” he says, following her. “But _whose_ clothes are them?”

“Ahm,” She stops by the door, looking embarrassed back at him. “My _last_ boyfriend’s. I hope that is not a problem?”

“No, not a problem,” he answers, putting his hands on her shoulders and smelling her hair: “But it wouldn’t hurt if you would tell me more about him one of these days. After all, you know _my_ ex.”

“You’ve met him, actually.”

“I _did_?” Sherlock asks surprised.

“Although, we weren’t dating anymore by the time you met him.”

Sherlock looks confused. “Is it Max?”

“No!” Alexia sounds outraged. “Max is like a _brother_ to me. It was Ajay!” She waits for his reaction, which consists of simply staring at her in disbelief. “We got together during that _boot camp_ -thing I did with A.G.R.A.” She looks at Sherlock for some sort of response. As always, he doesn’t react much. “We broke it off once I got offered the job in America.” She stops, leaning against the door frame, absent minded.

“Were you _in love_ with each other?” Sherlock asks with a touch of insecurity in his voice.

“I don’t know if it was love, to be honest,” she answers, still absorbed. “I was going to join A.G.R.A. and I _felt_ something for him. He was kind and he knew first hand all the difficulties of working for service. Besides, he had that _James Bond vibe_ about him,” she adds, smiling, bringing Sherlock’s self-doubt to a higher level. “But I don’t know if I was _in love_ with him, or if it just felt comfortable.”

“Was the break up mutual?” Sherlock asks, getting his doubt under control.

“Not exactly,” she replies, coming back to reality. “I thought a long distance relationship would not be a good idea, but he was optimistic we could make it.”

“Was he disappointed?”

“One could say so. Things _did not_ end up on an amicable way,” she adds in a defeated tone. “A couple of months after that, he went to Tbilisi and I thought he was dead until he reappeared in London, right before Ros’ – no, Mary’s – death.”

“When he was _actually_ killed,” Sherlock completes, gently. “I’m sorry about that,” he says, standing in front of her.

“Well, that comes with the job,” she shrugs. “People don’t live long lives in my line of business. Right?” She adds with a dismissive tone.

“Still painful, though,” he replies.

They remain looking at each other: Alexia disheartened about her past, Sherlock secretly content for knowing that Max is not a potential opponent – but also that the one who was, is actually dead.

After a few seconds, Alexia pulls him down the hall towards the bathroom. “Go take your shower. We can talk more later.”

 

 

Coming out of the shower, Alexia finds Sherlock in the kitchen making tea. Ajay’s tracksuit is at least a number too big for him, making her giggle, instead of reminding her of the deceased owner of the clothes.

“Ah! There you are!” He greets her open-heartedly. Catching a sight of her amused face, he adds: “Do you think this makes me look a bit like a junkie, by any chance?” He asks with a maniacal grin, showing a lot of teeth.

Alexia remembers Ros telling her about the time she and John found Sherlock inside a drug den, wearing jogging bottoms and a hooded jacket. The picture in her head was very close to what she actually saw now. “That tracksuit is a _tad_ too big on you,” she says, walking towards him. “Maybe you should wear your suit pants with the t-shirt,” she adds laughing.

“I’m glad you’re in a good mood,” he says, busing himself with the tea. “I want to tell you something important,” he explains, looking up at her. “Alex, I want you to _understand_ that I didn’t start a relationship with Irene to _provoke_ you. I was trying to _protect_ you.”

Alexia sighs. “Sherlock, look,” she says, leaning forward on the kitchen counter. “I’m not mad at you because of it or anything, but I _don’t_ really _understand_ it.” He looks worriedly at her. Noticing his uneasiness, it’s her turn to busy herself with the tea, “How do you take it?” She asks, pouring some into the cups he already set aside.

“Just like you.” With a look of surprise, she pours in some milk and gives him the cup.

“Now, tell me: How is it that you _sleeping_ with my adoptive father’s wife would protect _me_?”

He looks a bit upset at this harsh remark, but goes on: “I needed to know how much she knew about you; what kind of danger she posed to you. And I needed to make sure she could be neutralized if she _did_ threaten you.”

Alexia turns around to lean her back into the counter and stares peevishly at the contents of her tea: “And _what_ did you find out?”

He notices her irritation, but explains anyway, to show off: “Once you’ve told me about their marriage, I did my research. I found out they got married some years _after_ you left Germany. So, she probably did not know how you _looked_ like.” Alexia nods in agreement. “Once she actually _met_ you, the only reaction she showed was _jealousy_. I assumed it was due to her noticing my _own_ feelings towards you, but I could not be _sure_. I _had_ to discover what she knew, to monitor her contacts.” He copies her stand, putting down his cup and leaning against the counter, hands stapled under his chin.

“And?”

“She has had _very_ little contact with any one in Germany, except for the two times she travelled there. And she _never_ really demonstrated any signs of knowing you for who you _used_ to be.”

Alexia puts her tea on the counter and looks sideways at Sherlock’s face, irritated: “I could have told you all _that_.”

“How should I’ve _known_ you could?” Sherlock retorts, upset with what he perceives as ingratitude.

“You never _asked_ me, did you?” He shoots a narrow look of anger at her. “Are you so _addicted_ to being the hero, that you ignore the people who can actually _help_ you?” She sounds truthfully upset now.

“I could not have her put _you_ at any risk…”

“Holmes, I’m a secret intelligence service agent. My life is _always_ at some risk.” She stares at him; he stares back, at loss with her reaction. “I have been dealing with this sort of thing most of my life and have become _quite_ _good_ at it by now.” She paces up and down the room, like Sherlock himself does at Baker Street. “Florian Adler has been under surveillance since before I’ve moved to England. Once he got married, his wife was put under that same surveillance. Not even a _message_ goes through between them without me _knowing_ it. Believe me, Holmes, I can and I _do_ protect myself.”

“Do I have to remind you that I _saved_ you from people smugglers in Germany?” Sherlock say, darting back into his sociopath-mode.

“Holmes! That is _completely_ different,” she stops and stares at him, exasperated.

“How is _that_ any different? You needed protection, John and I protected you.”

“I needed your _help_ , not protection. That’s something _completely_ different.” Now she is actually angry at him. “There is a _big_ difference between rescuing and sheltering someone in need and _shagging_ a dominatrix.” She answers in a very angry tone.

They look at each other, disconcerted, until Alexia moves towards the door, reaching for her purse. “We need to eat and we will have to go out,” she tells him. “Come with me.”


	30. The Hour-Long Drive

Barely looking Sherlock’s way, she walks the few metres into Fleet Street, then guides him to a coffee shop a couple of houses down. She orders three different sorts of coffees, bagels and muffins. Then dryly asks him what he wants.

“Black, no sugar,” he tells the barista, who is staring at his sloppy clothes.

“Great! I’ll have the same,” Alexia almost barks, inpatient. “Can you make everything to go? Put everything on a bag for me? Thanks!” She adds, smiling a fake smile. Once the order is delivered, she marches out of the store and hails a cab: “Thames Barrier, please.”

 

 

Sherlock is utterly surprised with what happens once they arrive at the Thames Barrier Information Centre: Alexia greets all the guards on duty, calling them by first name, distributing the breakfast she bought. Most incredibly, they call her by her _real_ name as well, in a very familiar and caring way.

“Where have you been, lass? It’s been a long time since you last came to visit us,” the oldest of them asks, putting his arm around her shoulders.

“Sorry, guys. I’ve been really swamped in the last months. But you know I wouldn’t go anywhere without telling my favourite crew about it,” she says, affectionately returning the guard’s embrace.

“Yeah. She always tells us when she has to go abroad,” a younger guard explains between sips of his cappuccino.

“Of course I do, Frank!” She retorts, smiling at the man. “But guys, the reason why I came here today is to introduce you to my friend, Sherlock!” She adds, walking towards the detective.

“Wait? Sherlock, like that _detective_ fellow?” Another guard asks enthusiastically, staring unashamedly at Sherlock.

“The same!” Alexia answers. “Guys, this is Sherlock Holmes, the world’s _only_ consulting detective.”

“No way!” Most of the guards respond in unison, surrounding Sherlock; to his utter dismay. Only the eldest of them remains by Alexia’s side, suspicious.

 

 

After the guards bombard Sherlock with questions about his work and his cases, they take him and Alexia to parts of the barrier which are actually closed for normal tourists. They leave the both of them alone in one of the piers, giving the key to the gate to Alexia so she can close it once they are done.

“Was that punishment enough?” He asks the moment they are alone.

“I wasn’t _punishing_ you. I wanted to introduce you to some very important friends of mine,” she says, walking to the edge of the pier.

“Then why are you smiling like that?”

“What? I just made some of my oldest friends _very_ happy,” she says with a wide smile.

Sherlock sighs exasperated. “Why did you bring me here, Alexia?”

“Well, this place is important for me,” she says in a gentler tone than before, leaning her back against the railings. “When I was released from hospital, after I moved to England, I used to live with a foster family close by, in Woolwich. I had problems with trust issues, so I used to come here when I was feeling sad or had a bad day. I came here _very_ often,” she says staring absent-mindedly at the structure behind Sherlock. “One could say I kinda grew up in here.”

“Why _here_?” He asks in gentler than he had in her flat.

“This place made me feel safe. It felt like it was a barrier against any _bad_ thing that could come from out there,” turning again towards the edge, east and the Thames estuary. “From Germany and my father. I thought that, if this barrier could keep _London_ safe, _I_ would be safe as well. The _city_ would keep me safe.”

“It became your fortress,” he completed, coming closer to her.

“Yes. So I would come here whenever I was troubled Even when I was moved from that first foster family, I still came here whenever I was afraid, whenever I was mad at something, even when I just had a bad dream,” she says with a smile. “At some point, the workers became my friends. They recognised every mood I was in and talked to me when they thought I needed help. They watched me grow up. And they helped me go through whatever problem I had.” She is definitely moved, so Sherlock comes a bit closer. “And then came the 7/7 attacks,” she continues. “I came here, feeling scared, looking for some support, just to find out that Bennie lost his kid in the bombings.” She has tears in her eyes now. “It may sound ridiculous, but that was the moment I’ve noticed this barrier would not keep me safe from _everything_. It might keep _some_ bad things outside, but it would not protect me, or the city for that matter, from what already lurked within its limits,” she adds with a deep breath. “I knew I had to _actively_ do something to defend myself, so I talked to Lady Smallwood and joined the service.”

“I understand.” Sherlock answers, quietly observing the water.

“Look, Sherlock. I’ve been putting my life at risk to protect this country ever since I joined the service. The job I do means I _will_ put myself in danger’s way. And, honestly, the time you saved my life was the very _first_ time I got into _serious_ trouble,” she says, looking at him. “I’m so thankful and _happy_ you did save me, but I hope you understand why I was angry at you, dating Irene Adler for my sake. I don’t _need_ you to keep danger _away_ from me.” She pauses and looks at the water. “I have been doing this _very well_ for many years. And your brother does a great job at helping me, as a matter of fact. In many ways, he has been acting as my _personal_ barrier for years now,” she admits smiling. “What I need is someone who helps me _solve_ the problems.” She looks him right in the eyes. He stays silent, returning her stare. “Please, don’t be the barrier. The barrier doesn’t even know me. Be like the workers instead.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Be my friend.”

Sherlock looks sternly at the water in silence. He is humbled by his mistaken judgment about Adler, but what really bothers him is one little detail of what Alexia just told him: His brother’s years of protection, in addition to its blatant singularity, had somehow failed to stop Irene uncovering Alexia’s identity. There seemed to be a crack on Mycroft’s defence barrier, and Sherlock could not relax until he found out what happened.

“Alexia, the actions I thought were protecting you, not only were inadequate, I see that now, they were also _offensive_ towards you,” he says, still firmly starring at the river. “It was really not my intention to _affront_ you in any way and I apologise,” he adds as she walks closer to him. “I wish I could have seen things the way I do a bit earlier.”

“As long as you see it _now_ ,” she says, walking to him and placing a soft kiss on his lips.

Sherlock gently pushes her away. “I do, but there is still the matter of what Irene Adler knows,” he says, stepping away from her.

“But you said she doesn’t know me as Cäcilie Adler!” She retorts frustrated.

“I _do_ believe so,” he explains, pacing around the pier towards the gate. “There is, however, the problematic of how she figured out your _current_ identity.” Alexia turns from him to face the water. “As only a very small group of people _knows_ that you are alive, we have to conclude someone leaked that information to her.”

“Do you suspect anyone specifically?”

“I have an idea, but I need to let it ripe,” he says, stopping by the gate. “For now, I believe we will have to remain apart.”

“What do you mean?” She asks with a jolt.

“Irene had the habit of having me followed. I can only assume she still does,” he clarifies, playing with the lock at the gate. “Until we find out how she came to the information about you, it will be safer for you if we don’t see each other. We don’t know what she intends to do with the information she has.”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock!” Alexia moans loudly, turning around exasperated. “I just _told_ you I don’t need you to protect me!” She adds, staring at him fiercely. “Don’t you understand that?”

“I _do_!” Sherlock answers low-spirited. “But the moment requires caution,” he adds, as Alexia looks disappointed to the river. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

“Do what you have to do, Holmes,” she answers, without looking at him.

After a couple of moment’s silence, Sherlock opens the gate and walks away, stopping one time to see Alexia’s unmoving figure.

 

 

“Tell us one thing, flower.” The youngest of the guards asks Alexia when she returns to the Information Centre. “How _did_ you meet Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, Jamie, one of _my_ best friends was married to _his_ best friend,” she answers, struggling to maintain a smile.

“Look at that! The girl has _connections_!” Another guard jokes.

“Frank, be respectful,” The oldest of them retorts. “Are you two a couple, Alex?” He asks uncomfortable.

“We are just _friends_ , Bennie,” she explains, placing an arm around the man’s shoulders.

“Good. You know he faked his own death?”

“I know, George. He _had_ to do that to get out of trouble,” she explains, smiling more openly at the fourth guard. “Look, he is ok. Maybe not the most _conventional_ person in the world, but you can trust him.”

“Are you sure?” Bennie asks.

She hugs him. “Yes, I am. Besides, I’ve been working with his brother for my _whole_ life now. I know him long enough.”

“Good,” Frank says, sitting down on a chair overlooking a row of CCTV screens. “Because it’s cool to be able to brag about knowing a famous person.

Alexia places a kiss on his cheek while the others laugh at him. For the next couple of hours, they chat and laugh, catching up on each other’s lives until Alexia points out it’s time for her to go home, telling them some excuse. They call her a cab and, once they have said their goodbyes, Bennie takes her aside:

“Alex, luv, _promise_ you take care of yourself?” He asks with worry in his voice.

“Bennie, you don’t have to worry. I _always_ do.”

“No, no, no. Whatever you were up to this last time had a _bad_ effect on you. You are pale and thin…”

“Don’t worry, Bennie,” she says, hugging him. “I _was_ really sick, but I’m okay now. And I’m getting be better and better.”

He kisses her forehead. “Just take care of yourself, lass,” he says, taking her face between both his hands. “You’re important to us.”

“And you’re _very_ important to me,” she answers. “All of you,” she adds with a smile.

“Now go, kid,” he adds, hugging her once more. “But don’t spend such a _long_ time without a visit.”

She looks at the men for a moment, before getting in the car. Bringing Sherlock to meet her friends was a spur of the moment idea, but she didn’t imagine she would be going back home alone. Not after what happened the night before. _Well, maybe there is something to that sociopath thing_ , she wonders as she takes her place in the back of the cab. “Bolt Court, just off Fleet Street, please.” She tells the driver, waving her friends goodbye. _Or maybe, he is not completely over Irene yet._ The thought makes her shudder and she tries to push it away.

She takes her phone out of her purse and, turning it on, she places a call.

“Good morning, Lady Smallwood,” she says in a friendly voice. “Sorry for not answering you last night, but I wasn’t feeling very well.”

“Don’t bother lying to me, Alexia. Mycroft told me everything that happened at the party.”

“Oh!” Alexia reacts apprehensive. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you _myself_ , Lady Smallwood. I should have looked for you before I left the party.”

“Nonsense! You were overwhelmed and alarmed. It’s perfectly normal to just want to go away,” the lady adds, in a pragmatic manner. “Mycroft said Sherlock went to help you. I can see he manage to help you _compose_ yourself.”

“Yes, he did a very good job at it,” Alexia says, blushing. “He made a good point about Irene Adler’s behaviour.”

“Good! Still, I think we must devise a plan of how to deal with her in the future. She is potentially a _high_ threat for your safety.”

“Yes, ma’am. Surely.”

“Could you come around the house so we can talk today?”

“Of course, Lady Smallwood. On my way,” Alexia answers compliantly. She hangs up with a sigh. “There’s been a change of plans,” she tells the driver. “Could you take me to Hampstead, please?” She adds, leaning back against the seat and letting the London landscape pass by her for the remaining of the hour-long drive.


	31. Laugh Out Loud

Sherlock notices a group of women protesting in the pavement outside the Diogenes Club. This isn’t an uncommon scene, as the club’s men only policy caused a feminist outcry on a semi-regular basis. Women had already chained themselves to the railings outside the building; blocked the club’s door by lying covered in fake blood on the pavement; and, in the most daring protest till this day, they stormed the club dressed as prostitutes. Today, they remained calmly holding up signs and distributing pamphlets against the Club. Sherlock pays no attention to them as he gets out of the taxi and heads to the reception.

After making his way into his brother’s presence in the Stranger’s Room through sign language, Sherlock gets straight to the point, bombarding Mycroft about his personal assistant.

“What about _Anthea_?” The older brother asks annoyed.

“How well do you know her?” Sherlock asks, making himself at ease on one of the comfortable chairs. “Is that even her real name?”

“It doesn’t matter what her name is. Why the sudden interest on my assistant?” Mycroft asks irritated. “Shouldn’t we be talking about what happened last night and how your _girlfriend_ discovered Ms Gavin’s real identity?”

Sherlock’s neck tenses up at the mention of the previous night. The main reason for this assault on Mycroft was to avoid talking about what happened after he found Alexia. And here was his brother, steering the conversation in that direction. “As a matter of fact, I think _she_ is the reason why Irene knows what she knows,” Sherlock answers, guiding the exchange away from what happened after he left Lady Smallwood’s party.

“What do you mean?”

“Only very few people had access to the information about Alexia, Ms Gavin, being alive,” Sherlock starts explaining, crossing his feet on top of the antique coffee table. “I can _ensure_ you that no one in Baker Street had any contact with Adler, except for me. She must have gotten the information either from somebody in _your_ office or in Lady Smallwood’s.”

“Even if I had any reason to suspect any of _my_ employees of spying for your dominatrix girlfriend,” Mycroft corrects him, pushing his feet off the table. “People from _outside_ the service could have disclosure that information as well. Do I have to remind you that it was _Molly Hooper_ who introduced Moriarty to you?”

“Molly was _deceived_ into doing something less problematic than what _you_ did voluntarily,” Sherlock chastises his brother, angrily. The two stare at each other in a mix of rage and guilt. “Besides, Molly kept the secret of my fake death even from John, and he is her _friend_ ,” Sherlock adds once his anger subsides. “I doubt she would say anything about a friend of mine to someone like Irene.”

“There are still _dozens_ of other secret service agents who worked on Gavin’s disappearance…” Mycroft retorts indignant.

“Right, but I’ve only seen _your_ assistant working in direct contact with Irene Adler,” Sherlock interrupts with an air of insolence.

Mycroft stays silence for a moment. “When?”

“Back when I first encounter Miss, I mean, Mistress Adler. _Anthea_ drove John to meet her after she faked her death. Of course John thought he was being taken to meet you. And Adler used his error in her favour.”

“How come I didn’t know that?” Mycroft interjects, slamming the coffee table with a loud bang.

“Shush! Remember where you are, Mycroft,” Sherlock interposes, enjoying torturing his brother a bit too much. “You might _be_ the British government, but there are things that even the _government_ fails to detect.”

“She could have been spying for me…”

“If she was, she was not doing it very diligently, as you failed to notice how I saved Irene’s life in Karachi and brought her back to Europe.”

“It could still have been somebody else;” Mycroft mumbles.

“Balance of probability, brother dear.”

Mycroft silently leans back on his chair, clearly considering the information his brother just gave him. “Something has to be done about it.”

“That is blatantly obvious, Mycroft, but we have to cautiously consider our next steps,” Sherlock says, teasing his brother further. “Nevertheless, we have to give Ms _Anthea_ the benefit of the doubt.”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asks confused.

“I mean, she should not suffer any consequences until we know for sure she is the responsible for this leak,” Sherlock answers, filling his pockets with biscuits from the nearby tea cart.

“I’ll set up a meeting tomorrow in Whitehall to discuss our next steps. Lady Smallwood needs to be informed,” Mycroft adds, scribbling something down his little notebook.

“Do so,” Sherlock retorts after playfully licking the icing from his finger. “Send a car to pick me up, will you?” He adds, standing up.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. He is not very keen on having his brother around while sharing such problematic information with Lady Smallwood, but he knows Sherlock will be there, even if the car is strategically forgotten. As his brother walks out the room without a word, Mycroft remembers something: “How was it last night with Ms Gavin? Could you calm her down?”

Sherlock freezes upon hearing the first question. With all the surveillance his brother kept on him, it was difficult to imagine that he didn’t know what Alex and himself had done the night before. Was he teasing or didn’t he really know. Sherlock decides to avoid any admission until he is clearly confronted with accusations: “I did,” he answers, turning on his feet. “We talked and I think I could convince her that the danger is manageable.”

“Did she seem relieved when you left her?”

The image of Alexia in the barrier pier shoots through Sherlock’s mind. “She was calmer than when she left the party, the last time I saw her. Still a bit distraught, but less than when she left the venue.”

“Good,” Mycroft answers in a cold tone. “I will invite her to the meeting tomorrow. I believe that tanking part of things will help her nerves. Don’t you think?”

They lock eyes for a second and Sherlock is almost certain his brother knows. “Why are you telling me that?”

“Just wanted to check if you are okay with it.”

“Do as you like, Mycroft,” Sherlock answers, trying to maintain his ‘avoid admission’ strategy. He walks out of the room without a word and quickly reaches the reception, thinking about how much trouble his brother will cause for Alexia in the next few days: _Will he simply fire her, or torture him by torturing her?_

Once he gains the pavement, he is brought back to reality by the protesting women outside the club. He is determined to walk pass them without paying them attention, when a familiar scent catches his nose. It’s Alexia’s smell. Not her perfume, not exactly her shampoo, but the way her hair smells after she has worked out with Fairbairn. Frozen on the spot, Sherlock searches through the faces of all the women, but can’t find any that even remotely resembles the agent’s.

“Hey, what is this guy doing?” One of the women shouts, noticing him standing, sniffing the air by the door of the club.

“Is the creep _smelling_ us?” A second one asks, walking towards Sherlock.

“Calm down, Carol. I think he just came out of the club and was shocked to see us,” a third one joins in.

As the three stop a few steps in front of him, the scent intensifies, so Sherlock examines the trio carefully. The two first ones are tall and athletic, the second one, short and stout. Of course, she could be wearing a fat suit, but she is just too short to be Alexia in disguise. Sherlock steps towards the first one, a fair skinned blond, with long straight hair.

“Stop that, you freak,” she shouts as he sniffs the air around her.

The other two quickly step in front of their friend, protecting her from Sherlock’s nose.

“Go away, you creep,” the second one warns, ready to strike him.

“Calm down, Carol. I’m pretty sure this guy is not looking for trouble,” the short one interjects, using her arms to keep her friend from hurting Sherlock.

“I just wanted to,” he explains, examining Carol’s features. “Get a pamphlet.”

“With your nose? He is just another one of the creeps from this club. I don’t even understand _why_ we are trying to get in there. It’s _filled_ with creepy men.”

“I’m not a member of the club. I was just visiting someone,” Sherlock retorts apologetically, while carefully observing the first woman’s face.

“Alright. I’m pretty sure the _gentleman_ will take the pamphlet and walk away without causing any trouble. Right, mister?” The short one says, holding her friends back with her arms.

“Right,” Sherlock answers, still staring at the two women.

“Okay. Give him the paper, Kirsty,” she tells the first one, who promptly obeys. “Now, the gentleman will leave us alone, won’t he?”

“Yes,” Sherlock retorts defeated. He walks away, steeling back glances at the women, who huddle together, looking angrily at him.

When he reaches the next corner, he notices that the protest seems to have been ended and all the women seem to be packing up their things. Sherlock speeds up his pace to get to the next corner and into a cab before any of them decides to come after him. As he waves for black cab at the busy intersection, he notices the short woman pass by him on a motorbike. Their eyes lock and he can see she is smiling under her helmet. Before they break eye contact, she waves, moving faster towards the next corner and out of sight.

“221b Baker Street, please,” he tells the driver as he steps into the car. He finally looks at the pamphlet in his hand. A hot pink paper with pictures of famous feminists and a short text on it:

Last chance to illuminate the night that overshadows the Diogenes – still exclusively male. We will not rest until this is over. Where both genders can meet, it is easier for me to become something bigger. Where every John matches his Mary, women will not be tricked. We are counting on you.

“Actually, I would like to go somewhere else,” he tells the driver.

 

 

It’s dark when Sherlock gets out of the cab in front of a church. He walks around to the back of the building, finding a small wooden door with NO ENTRY stencilled on it in red. Under this, the letters “GwJ”, as well as a white circle with an “i” inside it near the bottom, are spray-painted. He opens the door and goes inside, walking down a stone staircase into a small vault set up as a chemistry lab/bedroom: One of his many bolt holes in London. Sherlock has to wait until his eyes adjust to the darkness. Not much has been changed since the last time he used this one: the tatty sofa, the plastic chairs and the desks are still there, but his computer and all the lamps are gone. And on the sofa, Alexia is lying down, staring at the ceiling.

“How long have you been sitting here, in the dark?” Sherlock asks, closing the door behind him.

“Not long,” she answers standing up slowly. “I didn’t want anyone to see a light burning and come snooping around. I couldn’t be sure you were coming.”

“Why wouldn’t I come? Your skip code was very easy.”

“I had no doubt you would break my code,” she says, lighting an oil burner on the darkest corner of the room – action that does very little in changing the darkness of it. “It was the other variables that made me worry.”

“What variables?” Sherlock asks, walking around the room.

“First, I didn’t know if you would even come down to the Club. I knew you would talk to your brother at some point, but you could just as easy have called him over or visited him in his office,” she explain, moving to light some candles on the other side of the room. “Then, I didn’t know if you would stop and take up a pamphlet. You could have simply ignored the protest, just like you ignored many others you’ve seen take place by the Diogenes.”

“You seem to have found a way to catch my attention,” he says, walking pass her and sniffing the air around her.

Alexia smiles timidly at his movement. “And finally, once you cracked my _very easy_ code, I wasn’t sure if you would _actually_ come to meet me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock drags a chair across the floor and sits as far away from her as he can.

“The way you left me at the barrier. I wasn’t sure you would ever want to see me again,” she adds, leaning against one of the tables. They remain in silence for a few seconds, watching each other in the faint light.

“I told you before, Irene has me under surveillance. The closer I stay to you, the more I put you in danger.”

“Don't come with that _protection_ bullshit again,” she says in a tone more saddened than angry. “What happened to us solving this together?”

“You don’t understand, Alexia.”

“No, I don’t. Last night you were all optimistic; sure that Irene was not the big risk I thought her to be...” For a moment, she can’t continue. The thought which crosses her mind is too crippling. With all her strength, she fights back tears to ask: “Did you say all that just to...”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Sherlock interrupts her, standing up. “I meant everything I said and did last night, even if nothing of it was planned.”

“Then why do we need to be apart? Why are you complying with _her_? Why are you doing _exactly_ what she demands?” She whispers more than speaks, the first tears rolling down her face.

“I’m not,” he answers barely audibly. “I’m keeping my distance so I can think straight,” he adds, avoiding her eyes. “You said last night that you have difficulties thinking while I am around. Well, sorry to say that the feeling is mutual.” He explains, staring at his shoes. “I need a clear mind if I am to come up with a plan against Irene. And I can’t do that when you around,” he says, finally facing her.

“But, but...” Alexia tries to organise her thoughts, but Sherlock’s reasoning has stunned her. “But you are Sherlock Holmes. You worked out all those things about me while I was _living_ with you. We even solved cases together.” Now it is she who can’t look at him. “Tell me you didn’t have a clear head _doing_ that!”

“That was before.”

“Before what? Before we had _sex_?” She asks, staring coldly at him. He looks away with a nod. Alexia takes a deep, exasperated breath. “You don’t want me around while you are on a case, so you can concentrate?” She asks, trying to remain patient. “Like you do with food?”

“No, not like that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“But last night you said you couldn’t take your eyes off me, you couldn’t stop thinking about me since Bremerhaven. Why does having sex change anything?” She asks, walking towards him.

“It’s even worse, now, isn’t it?” He says, stepping away from her. “Because now it’s much stronger. Just the sight of you makes me want to drop everything and put my arms around you,” he explains with a touch of despair in his voice.

“I don’t understand why that has to be a problem,” she says, throwing herself into the sofa. “According to what you said, you had those emotions before, but they didn’t stop you investigating and solving cases; even if you _couldn’t_ do anything about those feelings. Now, you _can_!” She adds, staring at him intently.

Her words steer Sherlock’s thought process in a new direction. He finally sees the benefits their new situation could bring. “I see your point,” he says after a few moments, leaning against a table for support.

“So,” Alexia says standing up and walking slowly towards him. “Do you want me to leave you alone or do you want to start working on a plan to neutralise Irene Adler?”

“I already have a plan,” he answers, feeling a bit silly.

“And you came up with it alone?” she asks, leaning against the same table by his side. He nods. “And you will present this plan of yours to everybody on the meeting tomorrow, in Whitehall?” He nods again. “Care to share that plan or am I only allowed to hear it together with the others?” Sherlock remains silent, still feeling foolish. “Come on. Give it a try. Explain it to me. I know you _love_ doing it,” Alexia adds in a teasing tone. “I’ll let you hold my hand if you need.”

Sherlock smiles. “Well, if you insist,” he says, taking a deep breath and launching into explain modus. “During my first dealings with Irene Adler, she sent somebody to pick up John while she pretended to be dead. The person who did this was my brother’s personal assistant.” He pauses for dramatic effect.

“ _Anthea_.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw her do it,” he answers. “I don’t know if she is still working for Irene, but my plan is to test if the connection is still there.”

“How do intend to do that?”

“Well, the first time Irene came into my life, she had an _ulterior_ motive.”

“The code for Bond Air,” Alexia interrupts.

“And ultimately, a deal with my brother. Everything that Irene Adler does, she does to obtain _blackmail-worthy_ information.”

“So, if we dangle something interesting in front of her, she will bite,” Alexia concludes. “What did she want from you this time?”

“She didn't seem to have any _specific_ target. But then again, I was the one who went after her,” Sherlock adds, while Alexia narrowed her eyes at him. “She just kept asking about any rich or influential clients. And about Mycroft and Lady Smallwood, of course, but in a vague, none specific manner.”

“You don't think she was after information about me?”

“As unbelievable as this might sound," Sherlock says in a teasing tone. “Your name never came up during our conversations.”

“Haha,” Alexia laughs a fake laughter. “So, you think she was just _fishing_ for any blackmail material?”

“Yes, and my plan is to test _Anthea’s_ loyalties with exactly that.”

“You mean you will dangle a fat fish in front of _her_ to see if _Irene_ bites?”

“Exactly.”

“And what are you going to use as bait?”

“Don’t know yet. That is the reason why I called the meeting tomorrow.”

“I thought your _brother_ called the meeting tomorrow,” she says, teasing him.

“At my request,” he answers slightly offended. “Any ideas what we could use?”

“I t has to be a piece of information?”

“It has to be something worth her while.”

Alexia paces around the dark room, thinking. “Maybe there is a way we can fend her off entirely.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well, if we offer her a person instead of information – someone important, she will be entertained longer.”

“It would have to be somebody very influential. Are you thinking of my brother?” He asks with a naughty smile.

“Similar. Luka Ivanov, Russian guy, son of one of Putin’s closest councillors. He has a _lot_ of influence, both in Russia and here in the UK...” She explains, stopping in front of Sherlock.

“Sounds promising.”

Alexia’s face turns into a frown. “No. That won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“He has this little habit of killing his girlfriends once he gets tired of them. We estimate he killed at least three British models.”

“And you can’t put him in jail?”

“As I said, his father is in the _highest_ circle of the Kremlin,” Alexia shrugs.

“Not him, then.”

“Unless you wouldn’t mind her...”

“Alexia, no,” he admonishes he firmly.

“Alright. No killing,” she says, throwing her hands up in the air in a playful gesture. “But I don’t know if I can find someone else as good as him.”

Sherlock chuckles and grabs her arm to pull her closer to him. “You are right. This is fun.”

Alexia smiles, moving slowly towards him; wrapping his arm around her waist and hers around his neck. When she is close enough to kiss him, she shouts: “Fabien Périgord.”

“What?”

“He is an attaché to the French embassy, childhood friend of the French president. Very influential, very important and, last time I checked, supposed to go back to Paris in the next few weeks,” she adds with a victorious smile. “Which means, very out of the country.”

Sherlock chuckles loudly at her enthusiasm. “So, if you can’t kill her, you send her out of the country?” He laughs, pulling her closer to him. “And how do you intend to make her follow this Frenchman away from her home?”

“Monsieur Périgord is a very big name in French politics. I’m pretty sure Irene will be very interested,” she says, caressing his hair. “Just don't know how to introduce the two of them.”

“Just say you were working undercover to investigate him. That justifies your reaction when she blew your cover at the party.”

She stares at him for a second. “You are _seriously_ clever, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, that is the common consensus,” he says, beaming at her.

“Are you happy with this plan?”

“Yes, I am.”

“See? Nobody had to have sex for it.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure you are getting out of here that easy,” he says and kisses her lips. “But what I said this morning about Irene having me followed is still true. We have to be careful.”

“I know. Did you talk to her already?”

“Only over the phone. If she knows we were together last night, she didn’t let it become apparent. I believe all caution is needed here.”

“Why do you think I went through all that trouble with the protest at the Diogenes?”

“You set out up the _whole_ thing?” She looks up at him and only smiles. “Actually, I wanted to congratulate you on your disguise. You _almost_ fooled me. And _that_ is saying a lot.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes,” she says, resting her forehead on his shoulder. “That _is_ quite a compliment coming from you,” she says sardonically.

“I especially enjoyed your use of your tall friends to make yourself look shorter.”

“I’ve learned from you and John: the precaution of a short friend.”

“Right, but not many women are willing to _emphasize_ their short comings to call someone’s attention.”

“Oi! Are you calling me short?” She hits him in the shoulder, making him laugh. She kisses him gently. “How did you know it was me?”

“Your sweat.”

“Do I stink?” She asks, taking a couple of steps away from him. “It’s so _hot_ under that fat suit. I sweat so much.”

“No, you don’t stink,” He says, pulling her back closer to him. “I can recognise the way you smell when you work out. After all, I’ve been a private spectator of so many of your sections with Fairbairn,” he says, locking his hands behind her back

“You know the way I smell when I work out; you know the breathing patterns when I’m sleeping. You know, I’m starting to think the girls are right: you _are_ a bit creepy!” She teases him.

“Well, at least my bum looks great naked!” He retorts, making her laugh out loud.


	32. Thanks

“Needless to say that this meeting is to be considered top secret,” Mycroft says, looking purposefully at Sherlock. “There will be no blabbing around, no mentioning it in any blog, and, most importantly, absolutely _no twitting_ ,” He almost shouts, staring at his brother.

“Why are you looking at me?” Sherlock asks, feigning annoyance.

“Because you are the most _twitter-happy_ amongst us, brother mine,” Mycroft answers in a fake patient tone, while his brother curses under his breath. “Having made that clear, we can move on to the _real_ problem at hand: The matters of Ms Gavin’s cover being revealed by my brother’s girlfriend.”

The room falls into silence in accordance, while Sherlock mutters fresh profanities under his breath.

“How bad is the damage to the case?” Lady Smallwood asks, barely lifting her eyes from the papers in front of her. “What do we know so far?”

“Last night, Irene Adler accosted me during Lady Smallwood’s party and told me she knew my name and that I worked for Mr Holmes. She never mentioned anything specifics to the case at hand,” Alexia says, standing up and taking a deep breath to gather her courage. “From what Mr _Sherlock_ Holmes told me last night,” she says, avoiding the detective’s glance in order to hide the slightest blush taking over her cheeks, “That is all she seems to know.”

“For the duration of my relationship with Mrs Adler, she displayed very little interest on Ms Gavin. The very few moments her name was ever mentioned sum up to bouts of jealousy,” Sherlock explains, hiding a smile of pride and happiness himself. “As a matter of fact, I firmly believe that is exactly what last night’s attack was about: Adler _misguidedly_ believed me to be smitten with Ms Gavin and used the information she had to bully her.”

“Misguidedly,” John scoffs barely audibly.

“What _is_ Dr Watson doing here? I thought this was a top-secret meeting?” Mycroft asks, standing up as he catches John’s reaction.

“He is my associate. I need him here?” Sherlock answers, standing up irritated. “What is your _assistant_ doing here?”

“She _works_ for me,” Mycroft answers crossly.

“Same with John,” Sherlock retorts defiantly.

“I work _with_ you, not _for_ you, Sherlock.” John corrects, also standing up.

“Could you leave _family_ discussions for another time so we can proceed with the meeting?” Lady Smallwood interjects, staring at the men coolly. “Thank you,” she adds once all three men broodingly sit down. “Now, Alexia, do you think it is safe to proceed with the operation? Or should we delay it until we know more?”

“No, ma’am. As a matter of fact, I believe we should _speed it up_. Act before Adler discovers anything and puts herself in a position to _actually_ jeopardize the operation,” Alexia’s answer comes in a very calm, to the point tone. She is, once again, in her environment and has complete command over the situation.

“Périgord is moving back to Paris in one week. Do we even have the time to do this?” Mycroft points out.

“I agree that we have a very small window of opportunity, but I believe it is better to act now than to risk having Adler put months of work to waste,” Alexia answers, staring Mycroft in the eyes.

The whole room keeps quiet until John breaks the silence: “What's the plan, the?”

“Okay,” Alexia says, jumping up and heading for a smart board at the end of the room. “We have two options: The Institute Français’ farewell dinner party, or his speech at the RAF Club,” she explains, opening a digital map of London, showing the Institute in Kensington and the Club in Mayfair pinned.

“The RAF thing would fit your alias of pilot-to-be...” John interjects.

“Yes, but it only takes place on Friday,” she says, touching the screen at the Club to open a file with all the information about the event. “I’m afraid it would not leave us much time, in case anything goes wrong.”

“When is the other one?” Sherlock asks, leaning back on his chair.

“Tonight,” she answers, touching the screen at the Institute Français to show the information about the event.

“Isn’t it invited guests only?” Lady Smallwood asks doubtful. “Even _I_ wasn’t invited.”

“That can be easily arranged,” Mycroft says with an imposing nod to his AP. Sherlock scoffs at this. “Have you thought of a back story yet? You need something that will allow you to get close to Périgord once you are inside.”

“Haven't you established any contact with him yet?” Lady Smallwood asks with a touch of impatience in her voice.

“I did establish contact, but it hasn’t been close enough to encourage that kind of invitation from his part. Mr Périgord has become _shy_ of new acquaintances since he was called back to Paris, hence my difficulty in extracting the information we need. Now that Irene Adler knows my identity, I am afraid she might connect the dots and go after the information Mr Périgord holds on the new airplane model.”

“Then what exactly _is_ the status of the operation so far?” The lady asks once more.

“I introduced myself at the Aircraft Owners & Pilots Association,” Alexia explains, setting a new pin over an area of Pimlico. “But so far, it resulted only in occasional social politeness.”

“What do you have in mind for the diner party?” Mycroft asks.

“Making myself more interesting by introducing a rich an influential family,” Alexia answers deadpan.

“How can you do all that in such short time?” John asks, making Sherlock, Mycroft and even Lady Smallwood roll their eyes.

“All we have to do is feed his staff the information before the party, John. These people rely on the profiles their staffs prepare to _pretend_ they know everybody at these sort of events,” Alexia explains patiently.

“Oh!” John exclaims. “But how do you do that until this evening?”

“That can be arranged,” Mycroft pronounces with a nod to his PA.

“Sounds like you have a good enough plan, Alexia,” Lady Smallwood says. "Risky, but considering the current situation, seems like the best we can do,” she adds standing up. “We can still use the RAF thing on Friday in case things don’t work so well tonight. Anything else needs to be discussed? Mr Holmes? The younger,” she adds as both Mycroft and Sherlock look at her. “Do you have any other _information_ that could help protect Ms Gavin on her little endeavour?”

“Not that I can think of, no. I don’t think Mrs Adler even know this guy. What’s his name again?”

“Fabien Périgord,” Mycroft answers.

“Never heard that name.”

“Have you heard any names but yours while you were with her?” Mycroft interposes, making both his brother and Alexia blush slightly. “Just because you never heard it, doesn’t mean she doesn’t know him.”

“I believe I would remember if that name would have come up.” Sherlock retorts pouting.

“Right,” Lady Smallwood interrupts before the two can develop another spat. “If there is nothing else to be added, I called this meeting adjourned. Mycroft, can you arrange things for Alexia?” She says, heading to the door.

“Of course,” he says, bowing his head. “My assistant will write down all the details we need, Ms Gavin,” he adds, indicating that Alexia should follow his PA outside. “In the meantime, Sherlock, I need a word with you. Alone.”

The detective looks exasperatedly at John. “I’ll see you tonight in Baker Street,” the doctor says, catching up with Alexia and Anthea as they leave the room.

Once everybody has cleared the chamber, Mycroft closes the door and calmly walks towards Sherlock.

“Do you even want this plan to work?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t think it will. She’s been working for me for years now. I trust her.”

“What will you do if it _does_ work?”

“The same I do to every rogue agent I catch: Prosecute.” He stops in front of Sherlock, on the other side of the table. “Of course there is always the possibility of a double agent.”

“Or rather a triple agent, in this case.”

Mycroft nods. “First of all, this little _ruse_ of yours must work. So you have to be extra careful not to put everything in danger.”

“Me? Why would _I_ put anything in danger?”

“I mean, you _and_ Ms Gavin.”

“What could you possibly mean, Mycroft?” The detective asks, feigning indignation.

“The signs are obvious, Sherlock: Ms Gavin blushing every time someone mentions Saturday night; you smiling stupidly every time _she_ does...” Mycroft explains.

“Ms Gavin is probably blushing because of what happened at the party. And I just found the situation funny.”

“Don’t bother lying to me: Surveillance puts you spending the night at her apartment after the party.”

“I’ve told you _all_ we spent the night talking about what to do with Irene.”

Mycroft takes a stoic breath. “I hope you know what you are doing, little brother,” he says, leaning over the table to look Sherlock in the eyes.

“You’ve seen how careful she is. I think you can trust her to do her job right.”

“In her line of business, even the most thorough ones don’t seem to reach retirement age. Their past have the habit of catching up with them. Remember Mrs Watson.”

“I made a mistake in Mary’s case, of not knowing parts of her past. I will not let that happen with Alex, so that when her past catches up with her, _I_ will be prepared,” Sherlock explains in a calm voice, which hides the rage in his mind. “And, Mycroft, when I say I _will_ know her past,” he adds standing up. “I mean _all_ of her past: The parts she knows and the parts she doesn’t.”

They stare at each other in silence for a couple of seconds; the weight of what they are not saying hanging over them.

“At least try not to put her in any more unnecessary danger. And stay away from her until all this is clear,” Mycroft says as Sherlock heads to the door.

“She knows what she is doing.”

 

 

Sherlock reaches the big common office, outside the conference room, where various people are fast at work. He glances over towards the corner where Alexia is still talking to Anthea, but is slightly shocked to have his view blocked by a very angry Max Fairbairn.

“You hurt my friend, I’ll break _every_ bone in your body,” Fairbairn warns in a menacing low voice.

“I’ve heard that one from John before,” Sherlock answers, feigning interest. “You can name every one of them while doing it?”

“Yes,” Fairbairn says, using the size of his body to impose. “But I will also break them so that it takes extra-long to mend.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, stepping away from the physiotherapist. “What is it with people warning me about Alexia today?”

“She has friends, mate.”

“I’ve noticed, but I’m not threatening her. Quite the opposite, I want to keep her safe.”

“You have a very bad track record, to tell the truth. Irene Adler was already after her and you two weren’t even dating!”

“Are we dating now? That is new information. An even stronger reason for me to work harder, isn’t it?” Sherlock answers. “Look, I can understand your worry, but all _I_ can do is promise to do my best. All _you_ can do is trust Alexia’s capacity of taking care of herself.”

“I do trust her. But if she suffers, in any way, because of you, I’ll break you.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock answers, mostly to end the discussion. “Can you give her a message for me?”

“You are really cheeky, aren’t you?”

“Just tell her I said Isle of Dogs. She will know what it means.”

 

 

In a warehouse in the Isle of Dogs, Sherlock waits in a upstairs office, lit by a few rays of the setting sun passing through the painted over glass of the windows. He listens to the noises from the outside world: cars driving by, birds chirping, a motorbike parking somewhere. Suddenly, the door opens and a figure in dark clothes and a dark motorbike helmet enters.

“You took your time,” Sherlock announces, standing up from a tendered chair in the corner.

“You didn't specify a time,” Alexia justifies herself, taking off the helmet. “Besides, it took me a long time to find this place,” she adds, throwing her leather jacket on top of a table.

“I thought you knew _all_ of my hiding places from your time doing surveillance,” Sherlock says in a teasing tone, coming closer to put his arms around her waist.

“I know _many_ of them, but the number is suspected to be in the double digits,” she answers, running her fingers through his hair and kissing him. “Not to mention the fact that you planted some _false_ information along the way: Big Ben's clock face?”

“Shush! No complaining. You will have enough time to learn them all, if you want. Now I need you to kiss me really hard.” He kisses her passionately, untucking her shirt from her trousers and sliding his hands underneath it to feel her skin. “I’ve been _dying_ to do this since the meeting this morning.”

“You were, weren’t you? I’ve noticed how you were looking at me,” she teases, frantically unbuttoning his shirt. “Why was that?” She asks, sliding her tongue down his neck.

“Your performance in that meeting,” he answers, moving his hands to her front, to play with breasts. “It was… arousing!”

“Oh, was it?” She says, sliding her hands under his shirt.

“Yes, the way you lied to Lady Smallwood about meeting Périgord...”

“I wasn't lying, Sherlock.” She says, kissing his neck wildly.

“What do mean?” He asks, slowing down his strokes on her breasts.

“I contacted Périgord a few weeks ago at the Aircraft Owners & Pilots Association.”

“You’ve been working cases” I thought you were training new comers.”

Both of them stop what they are doing and stare at each other.

“I was working _one_ case. _This_ case. That is the reason why Lady Smallwood called it an _operation_. It was on going,” Alexia says, looking him in the eyes. “Why is this such a problem, Sherlock?”

Sherlock remains silent for a couple of seconds, and then continues. “You _lied_ to me. You said you were _training_ people,” he says, stepping away from her and pacing around the darkening room.

“ _I_ didn’t tell you anything. I wasn’t even _speaking_ to you until _two_ days ago.”

Sherlock stops on his tracks. “ _Mycroft_ told me you had a training position.”

Alexia leans against a table, staring disapprovingly at the detective. “I still don’t understand what the problem is here.”

“Aren’t you putting yourself at risk working cases so shortly after being attacked?” Sherlock continues, ignoring her completely.

“That was _months_ ago. And I’m working _one_ case.”

“That _I_ didn’t know about.”

“Is that the problem?” She asks, but he remains silent. “One of the first things I told - _honestly_ told you - about myself, was that I am a very good agent of the _secret_ intelligence service. _Secrecy_ is a very important part of that job. I cannot tell you about _every_ case I work. I would be breaking the law and putting others in danger.”

“But how can we do this if you don’t tell me what you are doing?” Sherlock asks, pacing around, barely looking at her.

This time, it’s Alexia turn to be silent, staring at him while he walks the distance between the walls of the room. She knows his mind is racing at a speed she can’t comprehend and she wonders how much of what she says he can actually absorb at the moment. “I guess _that_ is the breaking point in this relationship, isn’t it?” She says, tucking her shirt back inside her trousers. “I can’t tell you everything I do; you can’t trust me unless I do it.”

“It’s not so much about _trust_ , but about _protection_ ,” Sherlock tries to explain, regretting his outburst, while  Alexia rolls her eyes. “How can I _protect_ you, if I don’t know what I am up against?”

“We talked about this before. I don’t need you to..”

“Wait, this is different,” Sherlock interrupts her, desperate. “What about that Russian fellow? The one who kills his girlfriends?”

“Ivanov? I’m not his girlfriend.”

“So, you are investigating him as well?”

“I can't tell you that.”

Sherlock sighs, exasperated, sticking his hands in his pockets and staring at his shoes. “What if this Ivanov or any other guy does anything to you?”

“Look,” Alexia says walking towards the table where her things lay. “I promise you I will always tell if or when any of my cases involve you or anyone one you know,” she says, rummaging through her purse. “And I also promise you that I will _always_ tell you, first thing, if I _ever_ feel like I’m in danger,” she says, taking out a pair of keys. “But I will not give up or compromise my job because of you. Is that good enough for you?” She asks, picking up her helmet and preparing to leave.

“Alex, wait. You don’t understand what I am saying. Let’s talk about this,” he says, walking after her.

“I do understand, Sherlock. What I don’t do is compromise my job to make you feel better,” she explains, stopping by the door.

“Please, stay. Talk to me.”

“I have to get ready for the dinner party,” she says slamming the door behind her. A few more moments and the engine of the motorbike roar, and then disappear.

 

 

When Alexia arrives at her apartment, her phone is buzzing with messages; all of them from Max Fairbairn.

_*That was absolutely NOT what I had planned to do with you this afternoon.*_

Alexia stares at her phone, wondering what this could possibly mean. Then she reads the next messages.

_*I guess I still have to learn how to deal with the fact that you don’t need me saving you all the time.*_

_*I’m sorry I said you lied to me.*_

_*Good luck on your case tonight, SH*_

She walks around the apartment, telephone in hand, with a mix of anger and warmth. _The blockhead nicked Max’s phone._ After a moment thought, she types in a message:

_*You’re an idiot. Give Max back his phone. It has compromising data on it.*_

_*Thanks.*_


	33. A Second Chance on Friday

“How dare he?”

“Alex,” Amy exclaims, pushing her friend back into her sit in the makeup table. “You can scream and you can swear, but do it _without_ moving your head, or I’ll end up _burning_ your scalp with the curling iron!”

“Sorry, Ams,” Alexia apologises as Amy tries to make a freshly curled strand of hair stay in place. “But don’t you think I’m right? I mean, to complain about _me_ , doing my job… And then telling me I don’t _understand_...” she adds beside herself.

“Yes, dear, but this is Sherlock Holmes. What did you expect from him _?”_ Amy says, letting another strand of hot curled hair fall down Alexia’s on shoulder. “I’m gonna need more pins. Can you get them for me, Max?”

“I expect him to be _reasonable_. Isn’t he supposed to be a genius? To put sense before emotions?” Alexia adds, fidgeting around her chair.

“Yeah! He is also known to be _sociopath_. You can expect _sense_ , not much _sensitivity_ from him,” Amy says, trying to hold her friend’s head in place while working the curling iron. “Now, hold still. Max, the pins?”

“I can’t find them,” he says, coming back from the bathroom. “Where _are_ they?”

“Inside the Mulberry clutch.”

“But he is _not_ a sociopath,” Alexia continues, still very worked up. “No! That is what _his brother_ taught him to protect him from what _his sister_ did. I’m telling you, the whole family is _completely_ insane.”

“And yet, you go and have sex with him, _despite_ knowing all this,” Max interposes, re-entering the room. “Here you go,” he throws a purse on top of the makeup table.

“Amy told me to,” Alexia answers.

“Oh, you shouldn’t listen to me,” she says, reaching for the purse. “MY _BRAND NEW_ BURBERRY CROSSBODY BAG!” Amy shouts, almost dropping the curling iron into Alexia’s lap. “Come on, Max!. Are you _blind_ or something? I said _Mulberry_ , not _Bur_ berry. Hold this for me,” she orders him to hold Alexia’s hair, while walking out of the room, muttering.

“I can’t tell these things apart! Besides, why do you keep _hair pins_ inside _purses_?”

“Because she buys all these expensive bags and has nothing to do with them,” Alexia tells him in a low voice.

“I’ve heard _that_!” Amy shouts, coming back from the next room with the right purse.

“And to lend me and make me look _gorgeous_ when I need to go to _fancy_ parties, because she _loves_ me so much?” Alexia teases, smiling and blinking profusely at her friend.

“Move!” Amy barks at Max. “Now, Alex, you _listen_ to me,” she adds, holding three hair pins between her teeth. “If you like the guy, I say _go_ for it. But you _have_ to let him know your rules. Don’t let him walk all over you, honey,” she explains, expertly pinning the curled strands of hair on top of Alexia’s head.

“Oh, lass, people don’t change. He is a bad one, that one: He _faked_ his own death, he _nicked_ my phone…” He says indignant. “I have sensitive information on my phone. The prime minister’s _private_ number is on my phone,” Max explains to the rolling eyes of the two women. “Sherlock Holmes is not _reliable_. If this guy is acting like this now, he will _always_ act like this,” Max says, leaning on the wall next to the table. “Don’t waste your time.”

“Max, Alex has had a crush in this guy since the first time we worked his surveillance,” Amy describes, adding more pins to Alexia’s hair. “They only had _one_ night so far,” she adds, causing Alexia to cough in disagreement. “More?” Amy asks in disbelief. When the other nods, she punches her in the shoulder. “Woman, you need to keep me up to _date_ on these things… Anyway,” she adds, turning to Fairbairn. “She has to get him out of her system. Besides, it’s not like they are getting married.”

“Who said anything about marriage?” Alexia says, sounding very alarmed.

“Exactly!” Max adds, “This guy is _bad_ news and you better keep away from him, hen. He _won’t_ change. Look how he treats Dr Watson.”

“Watson is his _best_ friend. He does _everything_ for him,” Amy counterpoints.

"Yes, and still he _lies_ to him at every opportunity.”

“Maybe he did that in the _past_ , but he doesn’t anymore”" Alexia corrects him. “He trusts John more than he trusts his brother.”

“After all Mycroft did, wouldn’t you?” Amy retorts as she finishes applying hairspray on Alexia’s head. “Done! Now, go get dressed so we can finish your makeup.”

“Just promise me you will be careful around him. He is bad news,” Max says as Alexia passes him on her way to Amy’s bathroom.

“Now, you, _Mr I can’t tell brands apart_ : This is _Mul_ berry,” Amy says, showing him the one purse. “This is _Bur_ berry. One has this tartan-like check pattern, the other starts with an _M_!”

“How am I supposed to know?” Max answers, giggling. “ _You_ are the expert here.”

“Yes, so do _not_ question me,” she says, returning the hairpins to the purse. “I bet the prime minister’s number wouldn’t be in your phone if you were wearing H &M.”

“How do I look?” Alexia interrupts, coming back to the room in a revealing black dress.

“Wow! That French guy doesn’t stand a chance.” Max retorts, checking her up and down.

“But we actually want him to pay attention to _Irene_ Adler, not me.”

“Well, she better bring her _A_ game then, honey,” Amy says, giving Alexia a pair of black shoes. “Sit down now so I can finish my work,” she adds in an overly dramatic tone. “Just one thing, Alex,” she says, holding a big makeup brush in midair. “ _No_ sex with Sherlock Holmes in that dress!”

“I _didn’t_ have sex with him in the other one,” Alexia answers in a defensive way. “He took it off me before we did anything,” she finishes while Max walks away with his hands covering his ears, singing:

“Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,//Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;//My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,//Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.”

“The dress cannot _unsee_ what it saw, Alexia! If Sherlock Holmes comes around, looking all fly and all, just say no!" Amy roars in mock condemnation above Max’s song.

“This is _work_ , Amy,” Alexia answers, still laughing at her friend’s joke. “I’m not having sex with _anybody_. Especially not with Holmes. Not after the way he behaved today.”

Amy stares at her in disbelief. “If you say so,” she says, going back to finishing the other’s makeup. “Should we get him back from the Highlands?” She asks, noticing Max belching away his tune in the corner of the room. Alexia nods. “Max!” Amy shouts, but the physiotherapist can’t hear her.

“MAAAX!” Both women shout together, catching his attention.

“You’re safe now,” Alexia smiles. Max looks a little lost at the two women and shrugs.

 

 

Sitting at the bar in the makeshift ballroom inside the restaurant of the Institute Francais, Alexia browses the guests’ faces, looking for her two targets. Normally she would have had months to prepare for a stint like this. The haste in which everything was done made her uneasy and especially the unpredictability of Irene Adler gave her a pang. Yet, this plan was her best bet if she wanted to make sure Irene would not blab what she knew to her husband. _And would stop boinking Sherlock Holmes_ , she could hear Amy’s voice complete her thoughts.

The sight of Fabien Périgord’s youthful face brings her back to reality. She stands up, picking up her Martini glass, and walks clumsily in his direction, making sure her walk calls attention to the way her dress accentuate her sleek, athletic figure. She bumps into him, spilling her half empty drink into her own dress.

“Oops,” she exclaims with a look of affected terror. “Monsieur Périgord, I’m so sorry” she adds, dabbing his perfectly dry suit with a napkin.

“Do not worry, Madam,” he answers, examining her from head to toe. “You seem to have caused more damage to your own beautiful dress than to me,” he answers, pointing to her damp gown.

“Oh!” Alexia interjects, staring at the shoulder strap. _Amy will kill me._ “Better than giving the _guest of honor_ a Martini shower,” she laughs, staring seductively into his eyes before motioning to move away.

“I am not so sure I would mind a shower from such a bewitching young woman.”

“That is very kind, Monsieur,” Alexia responds with her sexiest smile.

“Please, call me Fabien,” he reaching to catch her hand. “And you are?”

“Jean Gardner Batten,” she answers, as he kisses her hand.

“I think that I know you already!” he adds, holding on to her hand with an impressed look.

“From the Aircraft Owners & Pilots Association,” she answers with gleaming eyes.

“You were on my maintenance and repair class, weren’t you?” He asks with very little French accent.

“Yes, I was,” Alexia answers with fake embarrassment.

“I remember thinking: what brings such a wonderful woman to such a class?” He adds with a mesmerized look in his eyes.

“Well, flying runs in the family. Both my father and my brother are pilots. Try as I must, I could not resist the appeal of the skies,” she explains looking at her shoes and blushing. “But I have to admit: my father is the one made me come here.”

“Oh, such a pity,” he says. “Here I was, hoping a pretty woman like you would come and talk to me because of my looks.” Périgord browses the room, looking for his assistant, already losing interest, but one glance at Alexia’s cleavage changes his mind. “Do I know your family?”

“Perhaps,” she answers hesitantly. “But my father sure knows you.”

“And who is your father?” He asks puzzled, trying to recollect anybody by that last name.

“Brigadier General Batten, from the American air force.”

He looks surprised, as if the importance of the name finally got him. “You are his daughter? But you have a British accent?”

“My parents divorced when I was little. My mother was British, so I was raised in Kent.”

“Very interesting story,” Périgord answers, sneaking another peek at her cleavage as his assistant arrives to take him away. “Oh! The calls of duty. As you said, I am the guest of honor. Maybe we could meet another time and talk more?”

“Aren't you leaving London soon?”

He looks astonished, as if he had just heard the information for the first time. “Oui. Perhaps you would like to meet me to a little get together at the RAF Club next week?” He asks, taking her hand between his. “It will be a small thing; a lot more intimate. We could talk more then…”

“I would love to. My father would be livid to know I met you and only talked about amenities.” Alexia smiles in consent as he kisses her hand again. Once he has disappeared into the crowd of well-dressed people, she searches the room for Irene Adler. No sign of the dominatrix anywhere. _Maybe Périgord was simply the wrong bait. Or maybe Sherlock was wrong about Anthea. As_ Alexia walks back towards the bar, she hears a commotion going around the room. Turning around, she sees Irene, standing by the door, in a stunning sheer 1940s inspired gown.

Once she notices Alexia at the bar, she acknowledges her presence with a tilt of her head and a slight, malicious smile, before walking across the room towards Périgord. _We were both right after all._ As Alexia sits the empty Martini glass down on the counter, she follows Irene’s movements closely; knowing that she is, herself, being watched. She settles down on a bar stool and orders another drink with a simulated air of concern. Carefully trailing the woman’s conversation with Périgord, she feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns around to face Pierre Bertrand, Périgord’s personal assistant, standing in front of her, holding out an envelope.

“Madam Gardner Batten?” He asks in a heavy French accent. “Mon patron demanded I give you this; for his speech at the RAF Club Friday,” he says, dropping the envelope in her hands. “He expects to see you over there,” he adds, turning on his hills and walking away.

Alexia stares at the RAF emblem engraved on the expensive cream paper. She has managed to _catch_ at least one of her fishes today. The big question remains: _Could she catch Irene Adler with this fish?_ Keeping her attention on the couple’s movements, Alexia breathes a sigh of relief, knowing that whatever happens this evening, she at least would have a second chance on Friday.


	34. Eyes Everywhere

Lying on his back on his sofa, Sherlock stares at the ceiling, completely absorbed by his thoughts. From time to time, he throws a small biscuit in the direction of Rosie Watson, who is happily crawling around the room. His phone is buzzing, abandoned on top of his desk. His laptop is open on John’s blog. The couple seems entirety content in their situation, and every time the girl’s babbling recedes, a biscuit flies across the room and she crawls after it, entertained by the little game.

“What _in the world_ are you doing with my daughter?” John cries as he opens the door to the apartment.

“Positive reinforcement,” Sherlock answers without stirring. “I’m teaching her to be quiet.”

“And why does it involve feeding her like a dog?” John asks, picking up the girl from the floor.

“I was going for duck, actually,” Sherlock answers with a glance at the girl. “But isn’t it obvious? Whenever she is quiet, she gets a biscuit.”

“Why, Sherlock?”

“I would have used negative reinforcement, but you damaged my revolver so badly, I can’t get it fixed without external help,” he explains languidly.

“You intended to _shoot_ at my daughter?” John shouts, covering the girl with his arms as to shield her from the detective.

“Not _at_ her. _Around_ her…”

“Why would you do _that_?” John asks livid. “Never mind! I don’t want to know,” he adds as Sherlock sits up to explain. “And I will be throwing that gun _out_ the next time I see it.” He sits down, kissing and playing with his daughter. “And I will rethink your godfather privileges for now on.”

“No, you won’t. Babysitters are scarce, especially the ones you don’t need to pay for. And you can’t keep abusing the good will of Mrs. Hudson and Molly,” Sherlock retorts, lying back down on the sofa.

John mutters his reproach, knowing his friend is right. “Why are you ignoring your phone? Mycroft is annoying you with some boring case again?” He asks, putting Rosie down on the floor and walking over to the desk. “Sherlock! There are at least 30 messages from Lestrade,” John exclaims, sweeping the phone’s screen. “And a couple more from DI Hopkins. And even one from DI Carter!” John adds in surprise. “Sherlock, why are you ignoring this? There are at least three interesting cases here?”

“So?” The detective retorts, turning to face the back of the sofa.

“The last time I checked, you still _needed money_ to make a living. And here you are, ignoring paying customers,” John says, taking a look at the open computer. “And there’s more from the blog. Sherlock, what the hell is going on?”

“Nothing is going on. They are _all_ boring,” he answers in a muffled voice.

“They are _not_ all boring. The one with the engineer with the thumb cut off sounds interesting enough.”

“Oh, the Colonel was counterfeiting electronic products. He ran away after cutting off the engineer's thumb. _Boring_!”

“I am _hoping_ you warned the police?” John asks, staring at the screen, while Sherlock disregards him with a wave of his hand. “Sherlock, you have been _intolerable_ all week. Are you using drugs again?” The doctor asks, walking back to the sofa.

“No!” Sherlock shouts sitting up. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’ve been a pain in the A-S-S the whole week,” John spells in a muffled voice, checking to see if Rosie can hear him.

“You are a doctor. You should know the difference between being _under the influence_ and being _bored_.”

“It’s just that when you're bored, you usually recur to _either_ solving cases _or_ using drugs.”

“I am _not_ using drugs, John!” Sherlock yells, standing up.

“You are definitely _not_ solving cases either. So, _what_ is wrong with you?”

“ _Nothing_ is wrong with me. I can’t help it if everything is boring,” the detective retorts, pacing rapidly around the room; his dressing robe flapping behind him. “The _cases_ are boring, _you_ are boring…” He adds, plunging into his chair, his head in his hands.

John stares at him for a couple of moments. “Could this have _anything_ to do with the fact that Alex hasn’t been talking to you almost the whole week?”

Sherlock stares back at him and snorts. “No! She is working and it’s best that she doesn’t contact me during this time,” he adds in a sniggering tone.

“And that has _nothing_ to do with the stupid things you said to her?”

“No,” Sherlock answers, dismissing his friend’s theory.

“Could it have anything to do with the fact that that French guy seems to be more interested on her than on Irene Adler?”

Sherlock stays silent for a moment. “They have been on dates quite often in the few days…”

“Well, could you _blame_ the guy? Picking the nice heir, with connections to the American air force, over the famed blackmailing sex worker sounds kinda natural to me,’ John points out, settling on the sofa.

“Yeah. That seems to have been the flaw in our plan,” Sherlock answers absent minded.

“When will they meet again?”

“He invited her to fly him to Paris on Sunday.”

“Did she accept?” Sherlock knows. “Can she even pilot a plane?”

“She has been learning, but I don't think she is able to fly a plane on her own.”

“And you are afraid of what might happen if he asks her to?”

“I don’t think he would. I’m more worried about her going through all this and still not getting rid of Irene.”

“I guess you gotta trust her judgement here. If she says it will work...”

“But is it worth it, putting her in such danger?”

“Don’t worry. If things get _too_ dangerous, Lady Smallwood will get her out.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock looks at his friend interested.

“Have you never noticed this?” John wonders. “ _Every time_ Alexia is heading for a dangerous situation, Lady Smallwood gets her out before it gets too bad.” He waits a few seconds for his friend to process the information. “Think about it, she offered her that job in America just before things went really bad for A.G.R.A….”

“You think she knew about the ambush?”

“I don’t think so. We know that it was all that woman’s fault. But Lady Smallwood _knew_ the freelance business would be a lot more dangerous than the secret service…”

Sherlock considers for a few moments. “You have a point there. That is definitely a pattern to be analyzed.”

 

 

The morning sun shines bright against the white fuselage of the Dassault Falcon, blinding Alexia as she walks out into the tarmac of London City Airport. Fabien Périgord greets her heartily at the foot of the stairs.

“Jeanie, I’m so happy you could make it,” the attaché says, putting both arms around her. “I can’t believe you’ve never flown one of these,” he adds, motioning towards the plane.

“Well, I only have enough flight hours for little Pipers and Cessnas,” Alexia explains, walking around to examine the plane a little closer. “But my father always worked with Learjets or Boeings, if he was dealing with civilians. Sometimes, he let me take over, but never on a Dassault.”

“But the Falcon was a joint venture between France and the US,” he adds, following her around, pointing some features of interest.

“I know, but I never had a chance to even fly in one of them, let alone co-pilot one,” she answers with a bashful glance at him.

“Let’s go in then. I believe Luke is going through the checklist right now. You don’t want to miss _that_ …”

“Thank you for giving me this opportunity,” she adds with a smile.

“It’s a pleasure. Don’t let nobody know we are doing it. The French air force doesn’t like civilians controlling aircrafts of the government.” He smiles back at her and offers her his arm. “Shall we go inside? I bet you are dying to see the cockpit.”

The preflight checklist done, Périgord invites Alexia to settle down on the elegant cabin of the plane, where champagne is served before take-off. “Luke won’t allow anyone in the cockpit during takeoff, but once we reach cruise height, you can take over,” he explains, aimlessly fiddling with his flute. “As soon as she is here, we’ll be off.”

“She?” Alexia asks, nurturing a hope he is referring to Irene Adler.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you: I took the liberty of inviting a friend to come along. You won’t mind her flying with us, will you?”

“No, not at all,” she answers with a pleasing smile.

“I’m sure you will like her. She is enormous fun. I’m pretty sure we can all have a great time together,” he adds, catching her hand and caressing her fingers in an unceremoniously lascivious manner.

Alexia smiles in assent and takes a sip of the champagne, trying to disguise the sinking feeling on her stomach. She is almost sure Périgord was talking about Adler, but is starting to worry about what he might have in mind for the two women. Not that she hadn’ used her sex appeal to get what she wanted before - clearly, she had been doing this to the attaché from the start - but she knew she would not be able to go through with any such things if Irene Adler was involved. Alexia had difficulty concentrating now, noticing how Périgord’s eyes rarely moved away from her cleavage.

Strangely, Adler's arresting entrance seems to calm Alexia’s nerves. With a swift move, Irene removes her light camel coat to reveal an impeccably tailored red dress. The fact that she looks so beautiful, with her immaculate makeup and perfectly styled hair, shows Alexia how much the date with Périgord means for _The Woman_. Alexia knows her plan is working, and all she has to do is make sure to stir Adler’s interest even further. This gives her strength to counter whatever advances the couple tries on her.

Once Adler settles into her place, and permission for the preparations for take-off is given, Périgord proceeds to the presentations: “Do you two already know each other?”

“Yes, we’ve had the pleasure of meeting at a mutual friend’s house,” Irene answers before Alexia can even look at her. “Jane, was it now?” She asks in a derogative tone.

“Jean!” Alexia answers with a look mixing alarm and aversion.

“Right,” Irene dismisses her, turning to focus solely on the attaché. “Fabien, mon cher. I’m so glad we are going to Paris. I haven’t been in ages. We will have so much fun _ensemble_.”

“Yes, I am sure that we will. Us three will spend a formidable time,” he says, examining Alexia’s distressed expression. “You must want to go to the cockpit, poussin,” he adds holding her hand. “When we reach altitude of cruise, you may go. In the meantime, can we find anything interesting to discuss?” He asks, letting go of her hand and leaning back into his seat to have a better view of both women.

“What about those fighters we were talking about the other day? My father says they will revolutionize fuel usage in military…”

“Non, non, non, mon poussin,” he interrupts Alexia’s attempt to guide the exchange. “That is not okay. That is a conversation of work. I want to say an _amusing_ conversation.”

“I can do amusing,” Irene interjects, laughing. “I’m the _queen_ of amusing,” she says, moving to the seat by his side and leaning forward towards his chest. “I know stories that will make the hair in the back of your neck stand up.”

Alexia leans back into her seat, watching, while Adler tells Périgord about the sex lives of London’s rich and powerful. She pretends to tolerate the nonsense, but, as soon as the seatbelt sign is off, she stands up and asks permission to go to the cockpit. After about thirty minutes feigning interest on the controls of the plane, she decides she has given the couple enough time to warm up to each other, and decides to go back to her seat before the pilots start preparing their approach to Le Bourget. Alexia freezes on the spot as she re-enters the cabin: Adler is on her stomach across Périgord’s knees, and the Attaché is smacking her bottom.

“Oh, Jeanie. Come join us.” Périgord says, catching Alexia’s frightened eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Alexia stagers, blushing.

“Mon poussin, don’t need to be embarrassed. Come join us. I’m sure you will enjoy yourself,” he adds with slap to Adler’s butt, which sends her moaning.

“I think I would rather go back to the cockpit,” Alexia answers, turning on her heels.

“So,” Irene interjects, propping her head on her fists to stare at Alexia. “Seems like you found the limit for what you will do for a case.”

Alexia and Périgord exchange astonished looks as Adler climb out of his lap and adjusts her dress. Alexia gets a sinking feeling to her stomach and goes from blushing to looking pale.

“You will _pretend_ to be an airplane aficionado, you will _lie_ to Fabien about your family, about your job, but you _won’t_ indulge him in some play?”

Alexia, now looking very faint, exchanges another look with Périgord. “Jeanie, what does this mean?”

Before Alexia can answer, Adler continues. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Fabien, mon Cher, but your dear Jean here is _not_ who she says she is,” Irene explains, circling the other woman like a hunting animal.

“Jean, what is she talking about?” Alexia attempts to answer, but Irene continues.

“Her name is not _Jean Mountbatten_ , like she told you.”

“It’s _Gardner_ Batten!” Alexia corrects her in an angry tone, finding the strength to react.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Irene asks, stopping in front of the other and leaning in, so their lips almost touch as she says: “Alexia.”

“Don’t believe what she says, Fabien. She is only saying this because she thinks I was hitting on her boyfriend.” Périgod looks from one woman the other incredulous. “She has a boyfriend. Did she _tell_ you that?” Alexia asks, moving towards Périgord. “She is _practically_ a prostitute.”

“The term is _dominatrix_. And it has nothing to do with prostitution,” Adler corrects her, pulling her angrily away from Périgord. “Besides, I always told Fabien the truth about myself. You are the one who’s been lying,” she adds, holding Alexia by the arm.

“Jean, would you like to explain?” He asks in a grave tone, standing up and separating both women. Alexia looks at him like a deer in the headlights.

“She is lying, Fabien. I can show you my ID, my passport,” Alexia says, rummaging through her purse.

“Those can be _easily_ faked,” Irene interjects, slapping the papers out of Alexia’s shaking hands. “She is a spy, working for Mycroft Holmes.”

“You see, Fabien? This is _all_ about her boyfriend,” Alexia pleads with the attaché. “His name is Sherlock Holmes and I rented a room in the same house as he lives.”

“Stop lying!” Irene shouts, slapping her in the face.

"Ne fais pas ça, Irene," Périgord says, pulling the dominatrix away. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for all this.”

“Fabien, don’t trust her. She lies, she blackmails...” Alexia pleads once again.

He looks her in the eyes in a kind way, then looks at Irene. “There is a way to know,” he says, walking towards the dominatrix. “If you are what you _say_ , you should be able to land.”

“What?” Alexia exclaims alarmed. “You _know_ I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t have enough hours to pilot a machine like this…”

“You might not be allowed, but, from what you said, you are _capable_ ,” he says going to knock on the cockpit door. “Luke, si ça ne vous dérange pas. Mademoiselle Garden Batten sera si gentille de poser l'avion pour nous,” he informs the pilot of the change of plan.

“Mais, monsieur, je ne peux pas permettre à un civil de faire cela…”

“Fais ce que je dis. Je parlerai à _mon ami_ s'il y a un problème,” Périgord barks at the pilot. “Aller, aller!” He shouts as pilot and co-pilot leave the cabin. “Now, Miss Garden Batten. It’s your turn.”

Alexia looks terrified through the door at the controls. The pilot has turned on the autopilot, but Périgord notices it and quickly turns it off. He stares calmly at her as the plane starts to shake.

Alexia stares at him in horror. “I…” She tries to think of a way out of the situation, but the shaking increases. “She’s right,” she admits, and a slap from him sends her flying over the cabin, hitting a corner of door before she can say anything else.

“Shut up, you trash!” He shouts, his French accent now very recognizable. “Luke, retourne. Contactez le sol à Paris. Je veux la police sur le tarmac quand nous atterrirons,” he instructs the pilot. “What is your _real_ name?” He asks, grabbing Alexia by the shoulders.

“My name is Alexia Gavin. I work for the British secret service,” she answers, trying trembling to stop the bleeding from a cut on her forehead.

“Why are you spying me?”

“We heard a rumor that you were selling military secrets to the highest bidder. We _had_ to investigate.”

He lets her go and stares furiously at her. “You just started a diplomatic affair!” He says, throwing her to the floor. “Simone,” he calls the flight attendant. “Attachez cette femme à votre siège pendant que nous atterrissons et prenez un siège avec nous. La police la sortira de l’avion. »

Alexia watches Périgord and Alder go back to their seats, while the flight attendant kindly leads her to the foldable seat by the door, giving her a tissue to stop the bleeding.

“I have something that might help,” Irene interrupts her, happily getting a pair of handcuffs out of her designer purse. “I always keep one of these handy.”

Alexia spends the few minutes until they land trying to distinguish what the couple is saying, but they keep their voices low. Once the plane stops taxing and the door is open, two police men enter and, while one of them listens to Périgord’s instructions, the other unfastens Alexia’s seatbelt and helps her disembark. They wait outside the police car until the other police man arrives with Périgord and Irene.

“I don’t think your boss will be very happy with your job, Miss Gavin. My _special friend_ will be informed of what you did and Mr Holmes will have to explain himself to your Prime Minister.” Périgord tells Alexia. “You will pay _very dearly_ for this,” he adds, climbing into the back seat of a black town car.

Alexia watches Irene flash a devilish smile before climbing into the other side of the car. Dropping her head, Alexia stares at her feet while the police man dabs the cut in her forehead with his handkerchief. Once she hears the car turn a corner at the distance, she stands on the tip of her toes and leans in to kiss the police man next to her on the lips.

“Not here. Not in front of Basir,” the police man says, pushing her back gently.

“Comment allez-vous, Basir?” She says with a nod to the other man.

“Très bien madame. Et toi?"

“Va mieux maintenant,” she answers with a smile. “Don’t you trust Basir, Sherlock?”

“I do, but wait till we are inside the plane,” Sherlock explains, leading her to the back of the police car. “There are eyes everywhere.”


	35. About to Find Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, Explicit content

All three remain in complete silence as Basir drives them to a removed hanger, where a small private jet is waiting for them. Once the car stops, Sherlock jumps to carefully help Alexia out of the car and un-cuff her; all the while thanking Basir for his help. Then he finally addresses Alexia:

“So, did everything work?” He asks, tending to her wound. “I wish John had come along,” he adds, leading her towards the steps of the plane.

“I think so. Adler didn’t show any signs of knowing who I used to be, as you said she would,” Alexia says climbing the steps ahead of him. “But she was willing to do _anything_ blow my cover.”

“Was she the one who hurt you?” Sherlock asks worried.

“Don’t worry,” Alexia says in a sardonic tone, as she reaches the cabin. “This is not the work of your girlfriend.”

“She is _not_ my girlfriend!” Sherlock answers, grabbing her by the arm and staring earnestly in her eyes. He then proceeds to kiss her passionately, sending shivers down Alexia’s whole body.

They are interrupted by Mycroft’s towering voice: “The two of you should get a room!” He says in a more threatening than playful manner.

Alexia feels all of her blood run down to her feet at the same time as her heart starts pounding. Sherlock calmly puts both his arms around her, pulling her closer:

“I would love to, but you seem to find _pleasure_ in cock blocking me.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr Holmes. That was very unprofessional of me,” Alexia says, pushing Sherlock away and straightening her back.

“Calm down, Miss Gavin,” Mycroft orders, pointing to the seat directly in front of his. “I know when things are actually my _brother’s_ fault.”

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks moody.

“Someone had to make sure your _little plan_ didn’t stir a major diplomatic incident,” Mycroft answers, signalling to the crew they can start with the take-off procedures. “I was meeting with Monseigneur _le president_.”

“Good,” Sherlock says, taking the seat next to Alexia. “Did you bring a first-aid kit or, better yet, a medic?” He asks, checking on the bleeding wound on her head.

Mycroft waves to the flight attendant, who promptly brings a little case. “Who did that to you?” He asks Alexia in worried tone.

“Périgord,” she answers, wincing as Sherlock dabs the wound with antiseptic. “I hit my head in a corner when he slapped me,” she explains, making Sherlock visibly frown with hatred. “He was visibly riled about being spied upon. I apologise for forcing the service to sacrifice such a potential source. I’m sure he only needed a bit encouragement to start telling me _all_ of his contacts,” Alexia adds desponded.

“The important thing is that you are now _safe_ ,” Mycroft interposes with the slightest touch of solicitude in his voice. “And we did _not_ sacrifice anything. Other paths have just opened to our use in this case,” he adds as he notices Sherlock’s inquisitive stare. “The important thing is that the two of you maintain a certain distance for the next few weeks,” he says, straining to change the subject.

“Why would we do that?” Sherlock asks indignantly.

“We have information from a very reliable source that Adler left you under severe monitoring, brother mine.”

“So, all the risk Alexia went through was for _nothing_?”

“Well, Adler is now out of London and out of the way,” Mycroft answers in a matter of fact tone.

“And we now know with more certainty that she doesn’t know about my past identity,” Alexia adds, looking kindly at Sherlock’s perplexed expression. “Besides, it’s never a bad idea to be careful. You said yourself, there are eyes everywhere.”

“Do you always have to use my words against me?” She smiles and leans back in her seat. “Have you fired your assistant already, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks in a mocking tone, going back to inaptly dressing Alexia’s wound.

“Why would I do that?”

“Just wondering if your source is as _reliable_ as you believe it to be…”

“Let _me_ worry about the reliability of my sources, Sherlock,” Mycroft answers in a bad mood. “In addition, firing her brusquely would only call attention to the fact we know she is an informer.”

“I just think you should be more careful with whom you trust,” Sherlock retorts.

“You don’t see her around right now, do you?” Mycroft answers, settling into his seat and, immediately immersing into his phone. Sherlock devotes all his attention to dressing the cut on Alexia’s forehead, while she is left to consider how similar the two brothers actually are in some ways.

Once they land, Mycroft immediately stands up to gather his belongings. “Want a lift to Saint Pancras?” He asks Sherlock.

“Why would I go to Saint Pancras?”

“You took the Eurostar to Paris. I imagine it would be _less_ suspicious if you came back through the same station you left,” the older brother explains derisively.

“It would if I had been so _obvious_ as _not_ to conceal my path to Paris. You can take me to Victoria Station.”

A short nod is all the answer the detective gets before Mycroft turns on his heels and heads for the door, talking on the phone. When Alexia moves to follow, Sherlock holds her back, signalling she should wait until Mycroft leaves. Once they are sure Mycroft is out of earshot, Sherlock catches hold of Alexia’s collar and swiftly pulls her close to kiss her once again. “I don’t know when I am going to be able to do this again,” he explains once they break the kiss.

“Don’t be so dramatic. We spent the whole last week meeting in secret,” Alexia exclaims, caressing his hair.

“You barely talked to me for _half_ of that time,” Sherlock feigns indignation.

“And _whose_ fault was that?” She asks, standing up. “Besides, you survived it anyway…” She says pulling him up from his seat. “It’s best if we are careful,” she adds, putting her arms around his waist and kissing him intensely.

Her action reminds him once again of their first kiss in the train station in Bremerhaven, but, once again, this kiss is different: full of passion and longing. “You’re not making things any easier for me, are you?”

“Who said this is easy for me?” She asks, sliding her hands down to his ass.

Sherlock smiles and kisses her again, but they are interrupted by the horns of a car. “Such a dependable cock blocker!” Sherlock whispers, as Alexia pulls him by the hand out of the plane.

They spend most of the thirty minute drive from City airport to Victoria Station in silence, both deep in their own thoughts. When they enter the carpark, Sherlock takes Alexia’s hand and kisses it.

“Ach, this is sickening,” Mycroft scoffs, turning the other way.

“Then stop meddling,” Sherlock answers without looking at him. “I don’t like this situation one bit,” he says in Alexia’s ear, still holding her hand.

“Eyes everywhere,” she whispers back. “But we’ve gone through worse.”

He gets out the car and quickly walks away into the crowd moving into the station.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Miss Gavin,” Mycroft says as soon as the car starts moving again. Noticing her perplexed expression, he continues: “My brother is not very experienced in matters of sex; or in matters of the heart for a fact. I hope you don’t hurt him.”

“Mr Holmes, you know I promised Rosamund I would take care of her family. That includes Sherlock,” Alexia explains as determinedly as she could ever be. “I would never hurt him.”

“The problem, dear Miss Gavin, is that we can’t control everything around us,” he adds in a sad tone. “Many times, things we can’t predict hurt the ones we love the most.”

“Be sure, Mr Holmes, that I will do _my best_ to stop that from happening,” Alexia answers kindly, knowing that deep down, Mycroft is talking about his own actions.

 

It is already early evening when Alexia finds the time to sit down and write her report about the Périgord/Adler case. She has spent the day in meetings and debriefings, and has finally managed to get home, take a shower and spread everything she needs around her laptop on her newly assembled dining table. Still, she cannot concentrate. Every time she changes a line, her thoughts keep going back to Sherlock, and how they could possibly meet up without being intercepted.

In this state of procrastination, she jumps in her chair when her phone rings and it’s the man himself calling.

“Hey, I was just thinking about you,” she starts to explain but is unceremoniously interrupted:

“Honey, can you open the door. I forgot my keys.”

Confused, Alexia checks her phone: the call is coming from Sherlock’s number. “Sherlock? What is going on?” Before she gets any answer, her intercom rings and the call is dropped. She springs to her feet and races to press the button with her stomach aflutter. Before she opens the door, she checks herself in the mirror: _Stupid old pyjamas, but no time to change_. She fixes her hair the best she can before she hears steps approaching.

What she sees on the other side of the door takes her breath away: Sherlock is unrecognizable in a tracking suit and a baseball cap. He is also carrying several shopping bags. She can help but laugh while she holds open the door for him. “Sherlock! What the _hell_ is going on?”

“As we both established earlier that we _are_ being watched,” he explains, crossing quickly over towards the kitchen. “I've decided to copy your idea and disguise myself to come meet you. Hum, table!” He exclaims, pointing at the recently added piece of furniture, after dropping the bags on the kitchen counter. 

“And I guess all that shopping is part of your costume?” Alexia asks, closing the door and rushing to help him put the things away.

“No, I remembered how _poorly_ kept your pantry was last time I was here,” he says, storing the last items into the fridge. “Reminded me of when Mrs Hudson went on a Cruise.”

“And since when do you care?” She asks, placing herself daringly in front of him

“I don't. They were part of the disguise but I wanted to tease you with the pantry thing,” he says pulling her closer.

“And why you did all this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He asks leaning in to whisper in her ear. “To be with you.”

“At the risk of inflating your already _overblown_ ego out of proportion, I have to admit that you are _pretty_ awesome,” she says, knocking the cap out of his head.

“Good, because _awesome_ was exactly what I was going for,” he says in a tone equal parts sardonic and playful.

Alexia smiles and kisses him gently on the lips. “Thanks for doing this.”

“It’s my pleasure. Especially if you agree to have sex on your new table,” he says, kissing down her jaw to her ear.

“Ooo. I have work all over it.”

“I wouldn’t mind fucking you all over your work,” he whispers in her ear.

“I bet you wouldn’t, but I really would rather not push your brother any further than I already did. I know it’s your thing to annoy him, but I would like to keep my job.”

“He cock blocks me even when he’s not around,” he says, resting his chin on her shoulder. “The bedroom will have to do then. Are you ready? He asks energetically.

“Sherlock, let me at least organize…” Alexia tries to argue with him, but he lifts her up and puts her legs around his waist.

“No, you’re ready,” he says, carrying her towards the bedroom. He puts her down on her bed, leaning in to kiss her, while her hands play on the elastic bend of his trousers. He moves away to undress faster.

“Is this how we gonna do things now? A quickie?” She asks, watching his progress.

“If we had loads of time together, I would spend hours on erotic stimulation. But since all this sneaking around takes up a lot of time, I would rather go directly to the point,” he says, standing completely naked in front of her. “Besides, I really miss having sex with you,” he adds, jumping into the bed and kissing her neck. “Don’t you?”

Alexia feels a wave of arousal take over her whole body. “Yes,” she says in a mellow way, kneeling up on the bed to better take off her clothes, while he leans against the headboard. Smiling sensually, she moves to sit on top of him, stranding him, kissing his neck and jaw line. He slides his hands down her back, resting them on her butt: “Enjoying the view?” She asks.

“Oh yes!” He retorts, pulling her closer and kissing her passionately. Sliding his hands down her back, he grabs her arse, rubbing her body against his in a rhythmical movement. Wet, Alexia uses his cock to stimulate her clit, rocking against it, her hips in an undulating motion, so that both get stimulation where most needed. Both of them moan. Once his cock is fully hard, Sherlock lift her hips up so he can enter her. Both of them freeze with the sudden wave of pleasure.

“I can’t believe we are doing this again,” Alexia says while Sherlock helps her move her hips up and down.

“Would you like me to stop?” He says, teasingly.

“Don’t you dare,” she answers angrily, as Sherlock starts laughing.

“I would like to pause for a moment, however,” he says, pulling her up and away from him.

“No! Why?” She asks mortified.

“Shush! Be quiet and just enjoy,” he says in a calming voice, sitting up and placing her on the bed. “Don’t worry. I just want to try something else,” he says, crossing his legs closely in front of him. “Now sit down,” he says, guiding her to take a place on top of his legs. He enters her again, prompting a sigh of confused pleasure from Alexia. “Now, put your legs around my back,” he commends, wrapping her arms around his back, pulling himself closer and deeper into her.

“Sherlock!” She moans, surprised by the closeness and the pleasure the position provides.

He kisses her on the lips, holding her tight with his arms around her back. Her breasts are pressed against his chest. Instead of thrusting into her, he advances in a more fluid motion, rocking and grinding, while kissing her passionately. As she rocks back and forth, the direct stimulation of her clit has her whimpering loudly with a few moves. A couple of moments more and Sherlock feels her muscles tense up. Even though they aren’t moving much, he senses the walls of her cunt closing in on his cock, and it feels fantastic. Panting desperately, Alexia moves to kiss his neck and bite his earlobe, as her orgasm comes crashing over her whole body. The spasms that it causes on her muscles make Sherlock cum as well, moaning loudly.

They stare at each other; her breasts still pressed against his chest; the intimacy provided by their position dawning awkwardly on them. After a few seconds silence, both of them break into laughter that only stops when they kiss. She caresses his hair once again, feeling a new fondness for him. “Is it okay if I go clean myself?”

“Sure. I’ll be right here when you come back!”

 

When Sherlock comes back from the bathroom, Alexia is gone. He stands by the door, listening for a couple of seconds, and then moves to find and put on his underwear, as noiselessly as he can. He tiptoes into the living room to find her sitting at the dining table, working.

“Hey!” She says softly. “I hope you’re not leaving.”

“No. I was looking for you,” Sherlock replies, closing up to her from behind and smelling her hair. “What are you doing? Come back to bed. You must be tired.”

“So must you,” she replies, looking up to see his eyes. “I need to finish this report or I will be in trouble tomorrow. Why don’t _you_ go to bed?”

“I’m not tired,” he explains, his head hovering above hers, so close he can smell her breath.

“Then why do you want me to go back there?” She asks, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“There are other, much more interesting things one can do in bed,” he says, kissing her nose. “Especially when attended by such pleasant company as yourself.”

“Your idea sounds very interesting,” she says, kissing him back. “But I do need to finish this,” she adds pragmatically. “I need about thirty minutes; tops!” He looks at her despondently. “I’m sure you can solve at least _one_ case in the meantime. I promise I am all yours once I’m done.”

He nods and kisses her one more time. “Half an hour,” he warns her as he leaves for the bedroom. He is back in a few seconds wearing the tracking hoodie and carrying his phone. He sits on the chair next to Alexia and smiles at her before diving into his emails and messages. After about an hour, Alexia’s voice brings him back to real life: “Sherlock? Are you listening? I think I need a little more time. Would you like some tea?” He nods and she brings him a cup, but he is so entertained by the disappearance of an arts dealer’s wife that he forgets to drink it.

Another hour goes by until Alexia is actually done. When she closes her laptop, she notices Sherlock has fallen asleep, telephone in hand. She gets up, puts her laptop and all documents into her suitcase, freeing the table top completely, before crawling underneath. Sherlock wakes up with a start as he feels her hands sliding up his thighs.

“What are you doing?” He asks, still not completely awake.

“I’m trying to give you a blow job from under table, like in the films,” Alexia answers, hitting her head as she moves up to talk to him. “But I’m beginning to believe the films lied to me.”

He cracks up. “Get out of there,” he says, helping her to her feet. “You could have opened your wound again,” he adds, checking if the bandage is still in place. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. It’s just a bump,” she says, rubbing the back of her head.

Sherlock rubs both her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. “Hum, have I told you that I really like this robe?” He says in a sexy tone, stroking her shoulders.

“No, but I can imagine you do. I’ve noticed your predilection for silk,” she answers teasingly.

“Well, I guess I do own a couple of silk dressing gowns, but that is not the reason why I like this one _specifically_.”

“And what is that makes this one so special?” she says with a crooked smile.

“Easy access,” he says, sliding his hands under the fabric to caress her breasts, while kissing her neck. Alexia feels her legs give a little. “I’m glad you cleared the table,” he whispers in her ear, sending goosebumps down her spine.

“Are you sure about this?” She asks, trying to remain rational.

“You said you would be _all_ mine…”

“But do you think the table will hold?”

He lifts her and sits her on top of it, before slipping the robe down her shoulders. “We are about to find out.”


End file.
